#Me trying to clean up my saved drafts/writings

[neonbonded]

MC is an independent, strong woman—we love her for that—but what if… what if she told the LIs she wanted to quit her job and go full-on wife, kids, stay-at-home life? I feel like it’d be fluffy and hilarious like Sylus and Caleb would be over the moon spoiling her into the richest most pampered wife in the country, and Xavier would immediately start making babies lol

Stay-At-Home Sweetheart

♡ ft. love and deepspace men x fem!reader ♡ cw: fluff, future talk, domestic life, possessiveness, soft power fantasies, rich boyfriend behavior ♡ a/n: thank you for the suggestion—this was such a fun little fluffy write! I hope you enjoy your taste of spoiled wife life

CALEB — “So you’re telling me… I get to spoil you forever?”

You say it offhandedly.

You’re sitting in his lap, one leg draped lazily over his thigh, sipping tea in your sleep shirt while he’s scrolling through post-mission reports.

You don’t even think he’s really listening when you mumble,

“What if I just quit and stayed home full time? Cooked, cleaned, wore pretty dresses. Full wife mode.”

But Caleb freezes.

Like you slapped him with an engagement ring.

His hands drop to your hips. His head tilts. He stares at you like you just offered him divinity.

“Wait. Say that again.”

You blink. “I said maybe I want to be a stay-at-home—”

“Wife.” “You said wife. Don’t skip the good part.”

You try to laugh it off. “I mean, it’s a dumb idea—”

“No, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

And he’s already spiraling.

Out loud.

“You’d look so good barefoot in the kitchen. No. Wait. In my t-shirt. Holding a toddler and a spatula. Crying over a baking fail while I kiss it better—Jesus Christ.”

You: “You okay?”

“Absolutely not.”

Five minutes later, he’s dragging out a notepad and scribbling:

“Baby name list, but chaotic: Nova, Toast, Jellybean???”

“Do we buy a second house or just knock out the wall next door?”

“I need to up my life insurance because you’re not lifting anything heavier than a glass of wine ever again.”

You tease him—ask if he’s going to make you do laundry, too.

His response?

“You? Laundry? No. You’ll be too busy getting railed over the dryer while I fold towels with one hand.”

You: “CALEB.”

He grabs your face in both hands, deadly serious.

“I love your independence. Your brilliance. Your strength.”

A pause.

“But if you ever, ever, give me permission to spoil you full-time, to keep you warm and soft and loved and mine all day long?”

“I will become the most insufferable, overprotective, apron-wearing husband in recorded history.”

And the worst part?

He’s dead serious.

There’s already a Pinterest board. And a credit card. And probably a draft resignation email saved to your tablet—you didn’t write it.

But Caleb?

He’s just… ready.

Because to him, you are home. And if you want to stay there forever?

He’ll make it a kingdom.

XAVIER —“If that’s what you want… I’ll take care of the rest.”

It’s quiet.

Late evening, somewhere between mission fatigue and domestic stillness. You’re both curled up on the couch—your legs stretched across his lap, his hand absently resting on your shin.

He’s reading through intel logs. You’re chewing on the corner of a cookie. The room smells like his tea and your lotion and something safe.

And then you say it. Casual. Sleepy. Barely even meaning to.

“I’ve been thinking about quitting fieldwork. Just staying home. Full wife era. Maybe some kids. You’d visit on lunch breaks, and I’d make bad pancakes in your hoodie.”

You don’t even look at him right away. You expect a raised brow. A quiet “You’d get bored in a week.”

But instead?

Silence.

Followed by the soft slide of a datapad being set down.

Then his hand curls around your ankle. Just slightly. Anchoring.

“You’d really want that?”

You glance over.

His face is still neutral—stoic, quiet, unreadable—but his eyes?

Locked on you. Sharp. Focused. Lit with something that looks too much like longing to be casual.

You nod, shy. “Maybe. I don’t know. It just sounds… nice.”

He’s quiet for a second longer.

Then?

“Then we should start planning.”

You blink. “Planning what?”

“Everything.”

And then—without a hint of irony:

“I’ll map out when I can reduce field time. We’ll need a safer neighborhood. Somewhere with open sky. Room for a crib.”

You stare.

“Wait, are you being serious—?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says simply. “You said kids. You want to stay home. That’s not something I’d let you do alone.”

His fingers trace a line down your calf.

Soft. Possessive.

“You want a family with me.”

You flush. “I said maybe—”

“Maybe is enough.”

He leans in. Presses a kiss to your knee.

“We’d be good at it. You’d be good at it.”

Then, softer—more vulnerable than he usually lets himself sound:

“I think I’ve wanted that longer than I realized.”

You’re too stunned to reply.

So he does what he always does: fills the silence with something that sounds like logic but bleeds affection around the edges.

“We’ll need to track your cycle,” he murmurs. “If we’re going to do this properly.”

You: “XAVIER—”

He shrugs. Calm. Unfazed.

“I’ve already marked probable dates.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or climb into his lap and tell him to start now.

(You do both.)

RAFAYEL — “My muse… in an apron? I need to sit down.”

He’s painting.

Or pretending to.

Really, he’s mostly shirtless, barefoot, standing in the center of his studio surrounded by chaotic swatches of violet and gold while a brush dangles lazily between two fingers.

And you?

You’re curled up on the floor near the open window, sipping tea, flipping through a magazine when you say:

“I kind of want to quit working. Just stay home. Full-time wife. Cook, nap, look hot, raise tiny artistic children who only wear linen and answer to names like Moth and Cypress.”

You mean it jokingly.

Casually.

But the sound of a paintbrush hitting the floor makes your head snap up.

Rafayel’s just staring at you.

Mouth slightly open.

Eyes blown wide.

“You…” he breathes. “You want to be mine?”

You blink. “I— I am yours?”

“No, no. I mean domestically. Biblically. Artistically. Legally.”

And then?

He drops to one knee in the most chaotic half-prayer, half-shock position you’ve ever seen.

“I always knew you were divinely unhinged, but this—this is the final painting. My muse. My wife. My aproned disaster angel. I need a moment.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He lunges for you.

Pulls you into his lap on the floor, paint still wet on his hands, smearing across your shirt like it’s a signature.

“Say it again.”

You: “What?”

“That you want to stay home. That you want to make soup and babies and let me buy you pastel oven mitts.”

You laugh. “I mean, I do like pastel.”

“We’ll get matching ones. For the baby.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

“Rafayel—”

“I want them to have your mouth and my hair. Or your hair and my mouth. Either way, they’ll be dramatic and ruinous.”

He starts sketching. On your thigh. With paint-stained fingers.

“Tiny limbs. Stubborn expression. Covered in jam. Perfect.”

You can’t stop laughing now, your face buried in his shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to be more excited about this than me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, kissing your collarbone. “I’ve been ready to ruin you with love since the moment you snuck into my studio and insulted my color palette.”

You whisper, “So you’d really want that?”

And for once, he goes still.

Serious.

His fingers curl at your waist.

“I’d worship you every day for it.”

“I’d paint your swollen belly and your tired eyes and your messy hair like it’s the only truth I’ve ever known.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to be anything for me. But if you want to just… be loved? Be kept?”

His voice drops.

“I was made for that.”

ZAYNE — “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

You say it on a Tuesday.

The apartment smells like coffee and something citrusy—probably the linen spray you used on the couch that made him sneeze earlier.

You’re curled into the corner of the sectional, legs tucked under you, still in one of his oversized shirts from last night. Your hair’s a mess. Your heart? Still not at full strength after last month’s mission.

Zayne’s at the kitchen island, scrolling through research on his tablet.

And that’s when you say it:

“I’m thinking of quitting.”

His eyes don’t move at first.

Just a slow blink. Still calm.

“Quitting…?”

You shrug, voice light. “Hunting. The whole thing. Maybe it’s time. I could stay home. Rest. Get spoiled. Be your sexy little housewife or whatever.”

You expect a scoff.

Some half-snide retort.

Instead?

He sets the tablet down.

Quietly.

Then walks over.

You blink up at him. “What?”

He crouches in front of you.

Not joking. Not teasing.

Just… looking.

“Say it again.”

You falter. “That I want to quit?”

He nods once. Slow. Like he’s memorizing every word.

And then?

He exhales. Deep. Controlled.

“Good.”

“Zayne?”

His hand comes up to your chest—right over your heart. Like he’s checking it. Like he always does. Thumb brushing that familiar spot beneath your collarbone.

“Do you know what it’s been like watching you come home hurt?” he says softly. “Waiting to see if you’ll faint halfway through a sentence because your pulse is erratic again?”

You go quiet.

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays gentle.

“You think I didn’t notice how your hands were shaking after that last field run? Or how long you spent in the medbay?”

“I didn’t want you to worry—”

“I do worry.”

A pause.

Then—

“But if you’re really done… if I can finally stop wondering whether your heart will give out before mine ever gets the chance to break…”

He trails off.

Then rests his forehead against your knees.

Breath shaky. But steadying.

“Then I’ll build you the quietest life imaginable.”

“You’ll never have to lift a finger again. Not if I can help it.”

You lean down, fingers threading through his hair.

He presses a kiss to your thigh.

“I’ll take care of everything,” he whispers.

And for the first time in months?

He doesn’t check your pulse again.

Because for once, he can feel it—steady. Safe. Home.

SYLUS — “You want to be mine? Fully? Then say it again.”

It starts as a joke.

Just a passing comment while you’re still half-asleep in his bed, buried in his obscenely expensive sheets.

“I think I wanna be a stay-at-home wife.”

You say it with a yawn. Barely conscious.

But Sylus?

He stills.

Lays back on the pillow and turns his head toward you.

His eyes narrow just slightly. That unreadable look—the one that means he’s calculating something dangerous in the background.

“Say that again.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What?”

“What you just said.”

You hesitate. Then mumble, “I said I wanna be a stay-at-home wife.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

His smirk curves slow and sharp.

He sits up. Drapes one arm across the headboard. The sheets slide down his chest, revealing the fine lines of muscle.

“Finally,” he murmurs.

“Finally what?”

He leans in.

“Finally you’re giving me an excuse to spoil the hell out of you without pretending to feel guilty about it.”

You blink. “Wait, I was joking—”

“No, you weren’t.”

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“I’ve seen the way you melt when I buy you things. The way you light up when I feed you. The way you pout when I’m gone too long.”

He grabs his phone from the nightstand.

You frown. “What are you doing?”

“Canceling every mission you had this week.”

Tap. Tap.

“Calling my architect to add another garden wing to the house.”

Tap.

“And messaging my tailor to start designing custom loungewear.”

“…Sylus.”

“You’ll need something to wear while you parade around this apartment doing absolutely nothing except looking pretty.”

You try to sit up, but he throws an arm around your waist and pulls you into his lap instead.

“No more early meetings. No more danger. No more stress.”

His fingers trail down your spine.

“Just this. Me. Spoiling you.”

You blink up at him. “What if I get bored?”

He smiles slowly. Dangerous and amused.

“Then I’ll give you something to do.”

“Like what?”

His voice drops.

“Like carrying my last name.”

“Like letting me put a baby in you.”

You go silent.

Your face heats.

And Sylus?

He just hums against your neck.

“Thought so.”

“Now shut up and let me shop for your new walk-in closet.”

[khuzena]

The Ink Didn’t Fade

Phainon’s Version: My Dearest Pairing: Phainon x AFAB!Reader Word Count: 11.1k (overall fic including other parts)

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: He held the line. He made the shot. He remembered the smell of your burnt bacon while bleeding out.

A casket. A letter. A love that survived the war—he just didn’t.

Phainon died a soldier. But he loved you like a man.

And the ink didn’t fade.

C.w: Major character death, war themes, graphic violence, implied ptsd, survivor's guilt, tragedy, hallucinations, violence, blood, grief, separation anxiety

A/n: wtf, genuinely wtf, NO BETA READ. If something is misspelled pretend it doesn’t exist to save me from embarrassment. AAAAAAAA. THIS IS LONG and I hope I gave the characters justice. I’m not the best writer when it comes to war topics but I’ve read some WW2 and WW1 stories and even ones from the Vietnam War. This story isn’t EXACTLY set in those irl wars themselves, but it takes some inspiration and idk bro

taglist: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx

“Lieutenant Phainon! A letter was sent to you,” yelled one of his men, ducking beneath the tangle of barbed wire that carved the trench in half. His voice barely rose above the murmur of boots in mud and the low thunder of distant artillery.

Phainon didn’t react at first. His gloves were soaked through, fingertips numb as he scraped dried blood from his blade, an old habit, a quiet ritual. He’d stopped expecting anything weeks ago. Months, maybe. Time didn’t move here; it collapsed. Still, he turned.

The soldier handed it over like it was something sacred. "Courier dropped it five minutes ago. Name’s yours. Looks like it came from way back."

Phainon stared. The envelope was smudged and weather-worn, but there it was — your handwriting. It was slanted, soft, pressed like you were trying not to tear the page. He’d have known it anywhere.

When Phainon was first drafted into the front lines, his boots were too clean, and he still said things like “when I get back” instead of “if.” He wore his sword even when people called it impractical. “Ceremonial,” someone had joked. But to Phainon, it wasn’t. It was memory. Commissioned by a close friend. Something from back home. A weight he chose to carry.

Back then, your letters came every week. Sometimes twice. They smelled faintly of lavender or ink or sun— whatever your room smelled like when you wrote them. You always said the same thing in a dozen different ways: I believe you’ll survive this. I believe you’ll come home to me- hopefully without a torn off limb.

Now he clutched the paper like a lifeline, unsure if it was even real. The last letter he’d gotten was dated nearly three months ago. That one had said you’d been transferred — mail services, inland, but closer than before. He’d written back immediately. He wrote again after that. And again.

No reply came. The intercom system went down a week later, and when it came back up, he asked every passing unit, every damn logistics officer—any word from the city? Any mail backlogged? Anything from the woman who writes in blue ink and seals her letters with tape and hope and a sprinkle of cinnamon from your desserts?

Nothing.

He’d started to wonder if you’d stopped writing. If you'd heard what happened at the river. If someone told you he hadn’t made it. If you moved on.

But here it was. Paper and ink and fingerprints. You hadn’t stopped. You hadn’t given up.

He stared a moment longer before carefully removing the wax seal, rereading your name, thumbing over the corner of the postcard, it smelled faintly of cinnamon again. Maybe a hint of vanilla too.

He pressed the letter against his chest for a second—just a second—then unfolded it like it might crumble in his hands. The paper, creased and worn, trembled in the cold. His breath fogged over the ink as he began to read it.

"My dearest, Phainon, I heard from the intercom that letters sent to your troop have been lost after an invasion. I’m sorry— I don’t know if this will reach you. I don’t even know if you’re alive. But I write anyway. It’s all I can do."

Phainon paused, thumb tracing the edge of the paper like he could feel your pulse through it.

"It’s been three months of silence. I wake up to birdsong and the wailing of the wounded. A boy, seventeen, maybe, screamed for his mother while Cassandra cut what was left of his leg. I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. War doesn’t care about age, or kindness, or whether someone was once good."

He reread that part. Slowly. Then again. His knuckles whitened against the letter.

"Sometimes, I think of you when I pour water into the tea kettle. When I see handwriting that almost looks like yours. When I taste cinnamon on bread and remember how you hated bitter things. I leave a space for your letters on my cot. Just in case."

A breath hitched in his throat. He blinked hard. The mud on his boots felt heavier than usual.

"I hope you haven’t lost a limb yet. I hope you haven’t lost yourself. Sometimes I pray—not to the titan gods, just to anything that might listen—that they spare people like you. Like us. I still believe you’ll come home to me."

The bottom of the letter was smudged, maybe rain, maybe tears. Your name, barely legible.

Phainon folded it back carefully. He didn’t tuck it away. Just held it, like it was something breathing.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, to no one in particular:

“I’ll come home. Don’t forget me.”

And somewhere in the haze of smoke and gunmetal sky, he let himself believe it. Even just for a moment.

A bark rang out in the distance—the brown mutt with the tiny tail they’d half-adopted near the mess tent, chasing something through the slush. Boots scuffed past the trench, a few soldiers muttering as they reloaded, the sharp click of magazines sliding into place echoing down the line.

Phainon stayed kneeling, the letter still in hand, barely noticing when Theodore ducked into the trench beside him.

“Sir?” Theodore asked, softer than usual. “Mail from the gods, huh?”

Phainon didn’t look up right away. Just gave a slight nod, a tired smile playing at the edge of his lips.

Theodore sat next to him, uninvited but familiar. He smelled faintly of gunpowder and cheap cigarettes, it ewas the kind all the younger ones passed around. Phainon never touched the stuff, but the scent was always there, woven into the trench walls like rot and rust.

“Someone back home still praying for your pretty face,” Theo added with a grin, nudging his elbow lightly. “Probably the same one that color-coded your damn bedsheets.”

Phainon gave a short, dry laugh in just one breath. “She always put blue on Mondays. Said it was calming.”

“Did it work?”

“Maybe.”

They sat there for a beat. Somewhere up the hill, a shell thudded against the earth. Distant, but not distant enough.

Theodore pulled out Phainon’s blade from where it leaned against the wooden support beam and began polishing it without asking, as he always did when things got quiet.

“You know,” Theo said after a while, “I think the dog’s getting fatter. One of the new medics sneaks him bread.”

“He’ll outlive us all,” Phainon murmured.

“Damn right,” Theodore grinned. “He doesn’t even flinch at the mortars anymore. Braver than half the unit.”

Phainon let his gaze drift upward, past the broken sky, past the curling smoke. He thought of sunflowers. The smell of cinnamon bread. Blue sheets on Mondays.

“I’ll write back,” he said.

Theodore raised a brow. “You haven’t written in weeks.”

“I’ll write tonight,” Phainon repeated, a bit firmer this time. “She waited. So I will too.”

Theodore nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Because if you die without writing her back, I’ll find your ghost and beat your ass.”

That earned a real laugh. Quiet, rough, but real.

After dinner—stale bread, watered-down soup, and the bitter crunch of burnt onions— Phainon sat back on his cot, legs spread, boots still muddy. He didn’t take off his coat. The chill had crept in early tonight, and it clung to everything: the canvas walls, the tips of his fingers, the corners of his mouth.

But his hands weren’t shaking anymore.

The letter sat folded in his inner pocket, right against his heartbeat. He touched it again and again, not pulling it out this time. Just… feeling it there. Proof. Not just of you, but of who he still was around you. That version of him. The gentler one.

He let himself think about your smile. Not the one in memories, or photographs, or old dreams softened by time. The real one — or the one he imagined you might’ve worn as you wrote. Lips curved slightly. Ink-stained thumb. Brows furrowed in thought.

His heart ached in a way that wasn’t pain.

“Lieutenant.”

He looked up. One of the younger soldiers, Merek, maybe seventeen, eyes too wide, stood by the tent flap.

“Yes?”

“It’s Charis, sir. He’s not doing too well. Thought you’d want to know.”

Phainon stood immediately. “Where is he?”

“Mess tent. Hasn’t moved since lunch.”

By the time he arrived, Charis was sitting in the corner, back hunched, arms wrapped around himself like armor. A letter lay open on the table, already damp at the edges. No food in front of him. Just a tin cup, still full. Cold.

Phainon approached slowly. “Charis.”

The man looked up. Late thirties. Gruff. Usually the one cracking jokes about how he'd name his rifle after his wife just to remember how to hold her.

Now he looked like a man cracked clean down the center.

“It was my boy,” he said hoarsely. “Myles.”

Phainon didn’t speak. Just waited.

“Died two months ago. Malaria. I—I didn’t even know he was sick.” He let out a shaking breath. “They buried him already. Said he asked for me before he passed. Said he kept asking if I was gonna send more stories.”

The mess tent buzzed distantly, the men scraping plates, a pan clattering, a few laughs from the corner. But here, in this corner, it felt like a tomb.

“I’m sorry,” Phainon said quietly.

Charis rubbed at his face roughly. “Feels like I’m mourning at the wrong time. Like the grief is stale. Secondhand. I didn’t even get to hold him.”

“You don’t have to rush it,” Phainon murmured. “Time’s a mess here anyway.”

They sat in silence for a while. Then Charis added, “We have to plant tripwires tomorrow, don’t we?”

“Yes. Enemy’s pulled back. We can’t afford to get cocky.”

Charis gave a hollow nod. “Then I’ll grieve later.”

Phainon didn’t argue. Just placed a hand on his shoulder for a second, then left him be.

Later, when the camp quieted, after he’d made the rounds, double-checked their perimeter plans, given orders, inspected rifles and grenades, and the stash of barbed wire, Phainon returned to his cot.

He lay back, stiff mattress under his spine, and finally pulled the letter out again. There was a smudge near your name where the paper had bent earlier. His thumb brushed over it instinctively.

Outside, someone smoked too close to the tent, and the bitter scent of tobacco leaked through the canvas. He hated it. But he didn’t ask them to stop.

The dog barked once. Distant. The night was still except for that.

Phainon closed his eyes, the letter resting on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. The blankets itched. The cot groaned. Nothing about this place was soft — except this.

He imagined your sheets. The pale blue ones on Mondays. How you always said the color made your skin look brighter. He used to pretend he didn’t notice. He always noticed.

He almost drifted off.

Eyes half-lidded, breath evening out, letter warm against his chest like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. He was just beginning to sink into it—into the memory of your voice, the image of your hands folding the paper, maybe sealing it with a kiss, when it hit him hard.

He hadn’t written back.

Phainon bolted upright like he’d been shot.

His cot creaked violently, and he froze, glancing around the dim tent. No one stirred. Outside, the guards shifted in their patrol, oblivious.

He whispered a curse under his breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Where the hell?

He crouched by Theodore’s cot, rummaging through his side pouch until he found it: a battered pen, half-bitten cap. Classic Theo. Phainon snatched it like a thief and returned to his own bed, grabbing a crumpled stack of blank requisition forms he’d forgotten to file last week.

Close enough.

He fumbled for the small lamp near his cot, lit it with a shaking hand and his old lighter, shielding the flame from the wind that curled in through the seams of the canvas. The light flickered in a soft, gold, and intimate way. Then he set the paper down on his thigh, using a bent clipboard to keep it steady.

And he began.

“My dearest, I read your letter three times before I remembered to breathe. I still don’t know how it got here, and I don’t care. It’s here. You’re here. I keep smiling like an idiot. Nicholas thinks I’ve finally lost it. Maybe I have. Gods, it’s good to hear from you.”

He paused, thumb hovering near the edge of the paper, then kept going.

“It’s been three months. I counted. I tried not to, but you know me. I’ve never had much patience, even less so when I care. The moment I saw your handwriting, I just— I don’t know. Something in me stopped holding its breath. Are you still at the same field hospital? Have they moved you closer to the coast like they said? I hope you're somewhere warm. And quiet. With enough sunlight for your plants so you won’t have to send me another letter complaining that they dehydrated again. The new medic here thinks vinegar is a miracle cure for everything. He poured it on a shrapnel wound last week. The poor bastard screamed so loud, two birds fell out of the trees (maybe three, not sure). I miss your hands. Your competence. Your laugh in the infirmary.”

He grinned as he wrote that line, pressing the pen a little too hard. The ink blotched slightly. He wiped it with his sleeve and went on.

“The dog—yes, that dog is still alive and definitely fatter. The new medics keep feeding him scraps from the mess. Bread, sometimes beef, even a little cake when they can sneak it. He’s basically royalty now. Sleeps by the fire and growls if anyone gets too close. But he’s still fast. Nearly bit Merek’s ankle yesterday when he tried to take his spot. I’m not sure which of them I’d rather have on my side in a fight.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward again. He didn’t even try to stop it.

“Theodore’s going to kill me when he sees I took his pen. I’ll replace it tomorrow, maybe. We’re planting traps at dawn, and the perimeter’s shifting. The enemy’s retreated, but it doesn’t mean anything yet. You know how this is. Tension’s thicker than the fog. Still, I’ll be careful. I promise.”

And then, softer, the way he couldn’t say out loud:

“I miss your voice. I miss how you’d scold me for being dramatic, then patch me up anyway. I miss watching you fold your sleeves back, like every small movement meant something. You always made me feel… human. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Thank you for writing. For remembering me. For keeping me alive in a place where everything tries to make us forget. Always yours, —Phainon :)”

He stared at the page after he finished. The ink still glistened in spots. His handwriting had gotten worse, too fast, too messy. He didn’t care.

Carefully, he folded the letter. Pressed it to his lips, then tucked it into the small satchel where they kept outgoing mail, even if the post runner wouldn’t arrive for another two days.

He climbed back into his cot, slower this time, the warmth returning to his limbs like sunlight seeping in. The lamp flickered low, then out.

But even in the dark, he was smiling.

Morning came slow.

The light filtered through canvas in a pale gray wash, the kind that didn’t quite warm the skin but told you the world was still turning. The dawn fog curled around the camp like steam off a morning kettle — damp, a little metallic. It clung to skin, to boots, to breath.

Phainon rose early.

He was always up before most of the men, half by habit, half because he’d been trained to function on little sleep. Last night had given him just enough. Just enough to walk straighter, think clearer, maybe even smile easier. The memory of your letter still sat in his chest like a coal, warm and bright and untouchable.

He crossed through camp with his coat slung over one shoulder, buttoning it slowly. The dew hadn’t yet lifted from the grass, and his boots made a soft crunch as he walked. The dog—yes, the fat brown dog rolled in it gleefully near the firepit, paws to the sky, belly round and dirty. Someone’s sock was in his mouth, good thing it wasn’t his.

“Going for two meals today?” Phainon murmured as he passed.

The dog barked once in reply, his tiny tail flopping hard enough to knock over a mug someone had left near the ashes.

Around him, the camp was stirring. Quietly. Weary.

Metal clinked, the rifles being checked and cleaned. A low murmur of voices drifted from the tent line, most of it tired, some of it joking. Theodore was already up by the supply crates, arguing about fuse lengths with one of the new kids.

Phainon moved through it all like a thread stitching cloth—checking stations, giving reminders, nodding at the right moments. His men liked him. Respected him. He didn’t need to shout. He noticed. He asked. He laughed with them when it was safe to laugh. That was enough.

Charis was at the edge of the clearing, sitting on an upturned crate, sharpening his bayonet. His hands moved steadily, but his eyes didn’t match.

He looked tired. Not sick, not physically hurt, he was just… worn. Like the inside of him had been hollowed out and was now echoing loudly.

Phainon didn’t say anything.

He just brought over a tin mug, black tea, still hot, and set it down on the crate beside him.

Charis didn’t look up. But his sharpening slowed, just a little. He picked up the mug after a few seconds and sipped it in silence.

Phainon stood beside him a moment longer. Then:

“We’ll start planting by the west line in thirty. I want the wire coiled before noon. You’ve got time to eat something.”

Charis nodded once. A small thing. But Phainon noticed the way his shoulders dipped, a fraction of the weight shifting.

And he’d heard it last night. Barely. Just once.

Charis, curled on his side in his cot, letting out a sound that wasn’t a cry but something underneath it. Phainon hadn’t moved, and he hadn’t said a word. Just closed his eyes and let the letter on his chest be the only light in that moment.

The tasks that morning were straightforward.

Two men to the western perimeter to plant low-grade traps —mostly alarms and tripwires, just in case.

Others set to re-fortify trenches with sandbags.

A few rotated to kitchen duty even though supplies were thin.

The medic tent got its daily sweep, and the weird vinegar guy was banned from treating anyone solo after what happened with the shrapnel wound.

Phainon himself oversaw the wiring grid. Walked the camp twice and took everyone’s names for the post-runner arriving tomorrow; he always made sure to make everyone feel seen.

The fog was burning off now. The sky overhead was blue in places. The air smelled like smoke and earth and wet rope. And somewhere nearby, someone was whistling a folk tune off-key.

Phainon caught a laugh; someone had finally read their letter from home this morning, apparently from a sister who’d gotten engaged. A few others stood silently near the makeshift chapel tent. Then, one man lit a candle. Another just stared at the dirt, lips moving as if in prayer. Phainon won’t pry.

It was one of those days where grief and joy coexisted, like two soldiers who shared a trench but didn’t speak.

Phainon rubbed at the knot in his shoulder. Glanced up toward the tree line.

No enemies today.

But the battle wasn’t over. Not really.

Phainon had finished writing his letter the night before. The ink was a little smudged where his palm brushed it (he blamed the excitement, not his sloppy handwriting), and he’d folded it neatly with care. But this morning, as he made his way toward the gathering line of men near Rufus’s tent, something tugged at him.

He paused at the edge of camp, his eyes skimming the grass.

Then he saw it, it was a tiny violet bloom, stubborn and wild, growing between two rocks near the fire pit. It wasn’t anything special. Not really. But it reminded him of you. Delicate, a little defiant. Beautiful in a quiet, unexpected way.

He crouched, picked it carefully, stem and all, and tucked it between the folded flaps of his letter.

No wax seal. No fancy ribbon. Just a sliver of tape borrowed from where Theodore was rigging fuses.

“You sealing a confession?” Theodore asked without looking up.

“Worse,” Phainon grinned. “A letter.”

“Ah. Dangerous.”

Phainon just hummed, pressing the tape down with his thumb.

When he arrived, five men were already in line, each with their own folded notes, some shyly written on scrap paper, others crumpled from nervous fingers. Charis wasn’t there — not today. But Nolan was smiling quietly as he slid his envelope into Rufus’s bag. Said it was for his wife, who’d sent photos of their twins last week.

“Next,” Rufus barked, as if reading names off a tombstone.

Phainon stepped forward. “Lieutenant Phainon E. Ward, letter to Nurse (Name).”

Rufus took it without a word, tucked it in the satchel, and made a mark in a battered ledger.

Before he turned to go, Phainon gave him a small nod. “Careful with that one.”

Rufus snorted. “They’re all precious when they leave your hands. Not my fault what happens after.”

Fair enough.

As Rufus rode out, the dog barked and chased the mule halfway to the tree line. A few of the men clapped, whistled, and shouted for it to come back. Phainon just watched, hands in his pockets, heart lighter than it had been in months.

Somewhere in that battered mailbag was your name. Somewhere in the weeds of war, something gentle was growing.

He hoped, he really hoped, the letter reached you before the flower wilted.

11 days later.

The mornings always started quietly. Too quiet, sometimes. The kind that didn’t feel peaceful, it was just heavy. Like the earth was bracing for something.

The men had gotten used to the lull. Since the enemy pulled back, there had been no gunfire. No bodies. Just barbed wire traps to check, rifles to clean, and perimeter routines to repeat like ritual. The ground remained damp from yesterday’s light rain, and the scent of wet grass clung to everything: boots, cuffs, breath.

Phainon sat on an overturned crate, elbows on knees, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. The dog, fat from too many scraps and affection, rolled lazily in the patch of sunlight near the mess tent, kicking its legs in the air like it had never known danger.

He let himself smile a little.

Then he reached into his breast pocket, the inner one, where the fabric was still dry and pulled out a scrap of paper.

It wasn’t your letter. He hasn’t carried that around. Too precious.

It was a copy of the flower he’d drawn, trying to remember the exact shade. The real one, pressed between your letter, would be wilted by now. If it even made it. If the courier hadn't been delayed. If a stray bullet hadn’t found the wrong man. If, if, if.

He blew out a breath and looked at the sketch. Not a good one. Just a vague outline and the words:

She’ll smile, I think. If she sees this.

He wondered if you already had. If the letter had arrived during a quiet hour, in a nurse’s tent that smelled like antiseptic and blood. If you’d read it by lantern light, with tired hands and darker eyes than he remembered. If your lips had parted with the start of a smile.

He hoped you weren’t alone. That someone was there to hold your hand on the bad nights.

That you’d eaten something. That you hadn’t lost too many patients lately.

He rubbed a thumb over the sketch, then tucked it back in.

Theodore called for him—something about the medic station’s tarp needing fixing and Phainon rose, stretching his arms. His shoulders ached, but it was nothing new.

As he walked past Charis, who was sipping tea and staring at nothing again, Phainon paused.

“You sleep any better?” he asked gently.

Charis didn’t answer right away. He just blinked, slowly. Then, “I dreamt of Myles. He was laughing.”

Phainon nodded. “Sounds like a good dream.”

Charis swallowed. “Yeah. I woke up crying anyway.”

“…That’s alright.”

He didn’t say more. Just squeezed Charis’s shoulder, a silent presence.

As he left, the wind shifted, gentle, carrying the faintest scent of old tobacco and honeysuckle from somewhere down the hill as Phainon tilted his head.

He imagined your hands opening the envelope, gentle fingers lifting the tape, your breath catching when the flower fell into your palm.

Even if it had wilted, maybe you’d still hold onto it.

Maybe you’d still understand.

He hoped so.

God, he hoped so.

Then, a week later.

It came with the rain.

Not the kind that pattered soft against tents. This was sudden, brutal, cold. Sky cracked open and poured, and somewhere in the grey haze, they moved.

Phainon heard the warning cry just as he finished his round by the western flank.

Shots fired. Then a louder boom—the kind that took the air from your lungs.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t think. Orders snapped from his mouth like breath. Hands moved. Men scattered, then regrouped, drilled into the rhythm like they’d trained for years. Like they’d always known this would come.

Charis was dragging a bleeding recruit from the ditch, his face streaked with water and grit.

“Theodore’s down!” someone yelled.

“Not dead,” Phainon barked. “Get him to the tarp, now. Go!”

Rain soaked the back of his neck. His fingers were stiff on the rifle, but steady. Always steady.

They pushed back. Barely. By the time it was over, three were bleeding—one unconscious, two screaming and someone had to shoot the dog because it got caught in barbed wire and wouldn't stop crying.

Phainon did it.

He was the only one who could.

Afterward, there was no talking.

Just the medic tent flooded with groans, hands stained red, and boots squelching in the mud.

Phainon stood outside, shoulders squared, coat dripping, still clutching a bloodied handkerchief. His jaw was tight.

You still hadn’t written.

He wasn’t angry. Not at you.

He just… needed something soft. Something kind. Just a line, a word, to break the silence.

He thought about the flower again. The way it might’ve crumbled in your hands. If it even made it. If the courier hadn’t died in a ditch somewhere. If your camp hadn’t been hit first.

He closed his eyes for a second.

Then turned.

“Set new traps,” he told the nearest man. “Double line by the west. I want a scout team checking blind spots before sundown.”

The man nodded and ran off.

Phainon looked up at the sky. Still raining.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t have time to.

Meanwhile. Somewhere not too far, but far enough.

“Just breathe, alright? You’re gonna be okay.”

You press a damp cloth to his forehead. He’s sweating—pale and hot, even under the sheets, and shaking hard enough that the cot creaks beneath him. Eighteen. Maybe sixteen. You don’t ask. They lie about their age sometimes to get drafted.

“I didn’t tell her,” he mumbles, slurring, with his eyes fluttering. “My crush. I was gonna, when I got back. Swore I would.”

His hand grips yours tightly. His knuckles are bruised, trembling.

“You will,” you say.

You don’t believe it. But you say it.

“Hyacine,” you call.

She’s already running over, blue-tipped pink hair tied in a messy knot, cheeks flushed with panic. “Yes, yes, I have the quinine. And morphine. I think he’s seizing. What do I—?”

“Help me hold him down,” you say sharply.

She obbeys, knees hitting the floor beside the cot, trembling but focused.

The boy’s eyes rolled. He starts convulsing violently. You open the window to air the stench out, the sweat, the blood, the rot. And grab the compresses and basin again.

“Just—just breathe,” you whisper again, to yourself this time. “Just—”

But the seizing stops too fast.

Too still.

You pause.

You feel it. You’ve felt it before. The sharp and awful quiet that comes right after a soul goes slack.

“No,” Hyacine whispers.

You try anyway. Compress his chest. Tilt his head. Try to find the rhythm again. It's not there. 

You pump again. Again.

Still nothing.

“Time of death,” someone says behind you, “2:34 pm.” Maybe Mira, maybe the surgeon. You can’t look.

You’re still holding his hand. It’s warm.

You close his eyes with shaking fingers, swallowing a sob that claws up your throat.

You’ve seen this before. You’ve seen this too many times.

And yet…

Hyacine covers her mouth. She’s crying, her shoulders trembling. But not making a sound. Still sitting by the cot.

You should say something. You don’t.

You wipe your hands. You clean the blood. You move to the next cot because someone else is screaming and there’s no time.

But later, when the hallway is quieter, and your arms are raw from scrubbing, you sit by the open window.

And you think of him. Phainon.

You wonder if he’s safe. If he’s cold. If he’s eaten.

You wonder if your letter reached him.

You hope he smiled.

You hope he’s not holding anyone’s hand as they die.

You don’t cry. You can’t.

But gods, you want to.

But there’s no time.

Not here. Not in the field hospital that’s too full and too loud and too bright. The lanterns never go out, the blood never stops, and the screaming…

Gods, the screaming—

It never leaves your ears. Never did.

You hope your letters reached him. You really do. Maybe he smiled. Maybe he laughed. Maybe he tucked it somewhere close to his chest. Maybe he kissed the paper and whispered your name like a prayer.

But he didn’t reply.

There’s been no reply.

And it hurts. It tears quietly, day by day, under your ribs.

But you can hurt later.

There are new patients. A man missing three fingers. A boy was shot through the shoulder. A woman with shrapnel in her calf. And in the corner, one of the newer nurses, Mira, is already throwing up into a bucket.

“Four minutes,” you mumble to Hyacine. “Cover for me. Just four.”

She nods. “Go.”

You slip past the doorway. Push through the linen curtain. Stumble into the small, cracked-tiled bathroom and close the door behind you. Lock it. Lean into it. Slide down until your knees hit the floor.

Your hands cover your face. The sob comes fast.

He might be gone too.

He might be lying somewhere, he might be unburied, unheld, unheard.

Just like the hundreds of others. Just like that boy earlier today, the one who cried about love and never got to say it.

Phainon. Your Phainon. Your idiot, laughing, gentle, sunflower of a man.

You’d been engaged. A ring and everything. He looked so clumsy when he proposed. You remember how he dropped the box, called you by your full name, forgot half his speech, and blushed the whole time. You didn’t even let him finish.

You said yes before he could stammer again.

Then war took him. Too fast. Too soon. The draft came down like a gavel. He’d kissed you goodbye at the station, his hands shaking as much as yours.

You never got to plan the wedding.

You just packed his things, wrote the first letter, and pretended that was enough.

It wasn’t.

Now you’re curled on tile, hiding your cry like a sin.

You want to go home. You want to see him, touch him, yell at him for not writing sooner. You want to make him tea and complain about the rationed milk. You want to see him brushing that dog he always talks about. You want to see his stupid smile when he reads your letters.

But right now you’re not home.

You’re here.

You wipe your eyes. You press your fists into your chest and breathe.

Just four minutes.

Then the timer in your head chimes. You rise. You rinse your face in cold water. You look into the mirror and pretend you look fine.

Then you go back.

Because someone is dying. Because someone else just arrived.

Because the world doesn’t stop for broken hearts.

(But oh, if only it did.)

A/n: IM SOBBING THE WAY I HAD TO CUT IT WAS BCS OF THE WORD LIMIT ABSOLUTELY FK ME. GIVE A FEW HOURS TO POST THE NEXT PART. son of a gun 😭

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[kay9leo]

Out of Time - Part 1/?

- A New York Yankee in Hogwarts' Courtyard, 1890 -

I'm inspired by @sychenb post the other day about wanting more angst and keeping the angst ball rolling and I thought, "What if MC finally got to go back home to her time period, but never told Seb she was from the future nor did Sebastian ever find out? And Sebastian doesn't figure it out till near the end of his life that his best friend was from the future, but he won't even live long enough to even make it to the year she was born?

As for his wand wood? I went with willow due to this post: Sallow Family Name

(The green ribbon line divider is by @bernardsbendystraws)

Out of Time

"MURDER!" One of the court spectators yelled at him.

I'm going to Azkaban.... Sebastian grimly thought to himself as some court official casted a spell on his willow wand, allowing it to reveal all the spells it casted on a a certain date.

And that date being Imbolc, when he sealed his uncle's fate on a holy Gaelic day.

Flipendo...Despulso...Expelliarmus...

As the spells he casted that night poured out of his wand, Sebastian felt dread in him grow as the he waited for the last spell he casted that night to echo out in the Wizengamot.

...Bombarda... Solomon's form Auror buddy smirked at him with a smile that would belong more to a basilisk than a person. He was the only one who demanded this trial when he somehow found out WHO really did kill Solomon Sallow despite all the work Ominis and Iñaki did to hide his crimes to the world.

...Confringo...

Ominis frowned at him from the spectator's bench. Anne was still not speaking to him, but she was there as well, tears swelled up in her eyes as she avoided looking at him.

Iñaki was the only one who was no where to be found. Sebastian sighed.

It's better if she isn't here... Sebastian thought with remorse as the prosecutor kept reading out all the spells he casted that infamous night. The Hero of Hogwarts doesn't deserve to have her name soiled by having me as a friend...But is it selfish to want her here? To see my best friend one last before they send me off? Surely, she should have heard...or was she that ashamed of me she couldn't bare to even be in the same room as me anymore...

Sebastian swallowed the tightness in his throat.

I know she became distant from me not much soon afterwards that Battle of Hogwarts when Professor Fig died...but I thought she would come around...I thought she still cared enough with how she tried to cover my back....but why can't she at least stop by to say goodbye?

He narrowed his eyes, hoping to hide the tears building up in his eyes, refusing to look weak in front of the court.

In front of his sister.

Even after all this time, even when his neck was at the line, he couldn't appear weak to her. He had to be strong for his sister. It was the only thing he ever agreed with from what Solomon taught him.

He gave a tight smile at his sister, as if to try to tell her, everything will be alright, but Anne never looked at him as the spell that would forever separate them rang out in the court.

AVADA KEDAVRA.

At that, Anne began to cry as she hid herself in Ominis' chest, with his best friend rubbing her back as the court room gasped.

"ORDER. ORDER IN THE COURT!" The judge ordered, slamming his gavel against the desk, activating a rune it struck to cast a muting spell on the spectators. The judge frowned as he glared at Sebastian

"Are you aware Mr. Sallow that the last spell that came out of your wand on that day is an Unforgivable?"

Sebastian stood up straight with a blank look that he hoped didn't show fear as his lips tightened into a fine line.

"I'm aware." Sebastian nodded with narrowed eyes.

"And that any unforgivable used is an almost instant sentence to Azkaban?"

"I'm aware." Sebastian stated, his own voice sounding so far away, as if he wasn't even there.

"How do you plead?"

This is the moment of truth. I can't deny that I didn't want to kill him either with how that spell use is now out in the open. Sebastian bitterly thought as he looked back to Ominis and Anne.

The only two people left in his world.

Not even Iñaki was here.

A pain he tried to ignore in his chest as he glanced at the third empty seat before looking back at the judge. He took in a deep breath and said,

"WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE!" Iñaki's voice boom through the court room as everyone gasped as the courtroom door busted opened and Iñaki marched in. Her eyes, lightning blue as her ancient magic, were narrowed and sharp, eying everyone in the court room before zoning in onto Solomon's former Auror friend.

The Auror frowned. "And you are?" The judge stated despite his own eyes widening open like everyone else as whispers filled the court room once more. It's the Hero of Hogwarts!

She's the Troll Slayer who saved Hogsmeade in the beginning of the school year!

She saved my town from the giant spiders!

When did she get that new scar on her eyebrow?

Probably from doing something heroic as she is know to do.

What's she doing here? I thought she disappeared at the end of the school year. No one could find her. Not even Sallow. One of his year mates said, the daughter of some high Wizengamot member said from the spectator's bench.

It's been two weeks since school ended. Two weeks since she vanished. A week since he received his court summons for the murder of Solomon Sallow.

And now she was here.

In the flesh.

"My name is Iñaki Carmen Martinez Cariaga. But you may better know me as the Troll Slayer of Hogsmeade. The Hawk that took down Rookwood. HERO OF HOGWARTS who stopped the goblin rebellion underneath said school." Iñaki listed out, unamused as if she was forced to list out the potion ingredients for Wigglewend.

"R-r-right. Of course. The Hero of Hogwarts." The judge nervously shuttered as Iñaki's sharp magical blue eyes met his. Sebastian nearly pitied the man; he's been a recipient of her glare before. Meeting her piercing magical blue eyes unnerved him when she glared, its very magical lightening blue hue ever present as a side effect of using ancient magic or being around magical places build by it. While Iñaki's pupils were normally a warm dark oak, her azure blue were preternatural.

would always cause her ancient magic to show in her eye color.

As if reminding the world the power she wielded.

Sebastian wouldn't lie, it was a bit unnerving when the force of her ancient magic could just be felt just by meeting her magically blue eyes head on.

For once, he was happy it wasn't him who had her attention.

"I am here to provide evidence." Iñaki stated.

"Evidence of what?" The judge frowned as he tried to not finch back.

"Evidence of Mr. Sallow's self-defense on that day. I was there." Iñaki stated as the courtroom gasped and the judge had to use his gavel once more.

From there, things were a blur as Sebastian stood there frozen as Iñaki provided two major evidence of her claim: Solomon Sallow's wand and her memories.

When Solomon's wand was reviewed in court, it turned out it wasn't just Sebastian who casted an unforgivable on that day.

Then Iñaki took out a string of smoke from her head and placed it on the pensieve before a court member cased a spell on said pensieve. Smoke rose from it and engulfed the whole room into the scene of that faithful night from her perspective.

Of Iñaki finding him in the catacomb.

Of the inferi being knocked down.

Of Solomon destroying the relic.

Of Sebastian firing back.

Sebastian glared at memory-Solomon as he fired a shot at Iñaki, dragging her into the fight as well. Then when a spelled fired by Solomon slammed her against the rocky walls, the scene became dark. Not even her breaths were audible as the darkness continued, but the sounds of spells firing and his own voice calling out her name out.

"Get up Iñaki! PlEase." He shouted as his voice cracked as the room heard spells continuing to be fired as the scene was still dark.

"She cannot be healed, Sebastian." The court room gasped at Solomon's voice. "You must stop."

Sebastian frowned.

They weren't talking about Iñaki here, but Anne.

But when he looked back to Iñaki while everyone was listening to the scene unfold, Iñaki had tighten her lips, and slowly shook her head as if to say:

Keep quiet. Let them decide what they want to see.

Spell kept firing in the darkness before Iñaki's memory had her finally opening her eyes slowly as she looked up to see a rock in front of her. A second later, it was blasted apart from a green spell.

She flinched away with a grunt.

Sebastian didn't even realize she was almost struck by a stray spell in the crossfire as the memories showed from her view her backing away from the destroyed rock before she looked at down at her hands, blood dripping on it like raindrops.

Her blood.

Sebastian could barely remember the minor head cut she got in the duel but suddenly it seemed relevant here in the courtroom as they heard his voice shout out:

"Argh! I won't let her suffer. AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The crowd gasped as Iñaki's vision slowly looked up to see memory-Sebastian's back to her, as his body covered her view as he struck his uncle dead.

Iñaki's eyes glanced back to the blood dripping on to her hands before it slowly blinked closed, causing the scene to turn black. Then they heard her body collapse onto the ground with a grunt as well followed by the deafening echoing sound of his wand hitting the catacomb floor.

The memory ended.

The smoke returned to the pensieve as Iñaki stared at the judge while the murmur in the room grew.

Solomon attacked the Hero of Hogwarts.

It was in self defense! Did you see how that stray spell struck that rock in front of her?

He isn't a cold blooded murder, he was protecting his friend! Did you see the way he was standing in front of her

Solomon Sallow was out for blood. You saw how he nearly killed the girl if that Sallow kid didn't kill him first!?

This happened before that goblin attack at Hogwarts...Sallow saved her before she saved us from the Goblin Rebellion!

So that's where her new scar came from!

He's a hero!

Sebastian glanced over towards Solomon's old Auror friend who looked nearly as shocked as the rest of the crowd and then at Ominis who looked at Iñaki with fright and concern for her while Anne's eyes were the ones that struck him the most as she stared opened mouthed at her as well.

They were filled with horror.

She never truly did believe that Solomon was out to get him. And it seemed that she must have thought the same thing as the courtroom when he and Solomon were speaking in the memory.

That they were arguing about Iñaki, not Anne.

He glanced back towards Iñaki as she stared at the judge, her ancient magic forceful behind her magical blue eyes. And suddenly, that faint scar line at her eyebrow that extended to her temple seem to be even all the more relevant.

Even he could see how the Judge was studying it.

"Your honor, as you can see, Sebastian Sallow saved my life from an unprompted attack by Solomon Sallow. The moment he shot at the inferi, should be noted as the first attack as it got in the way of directly striking Sebastian Sallow. The fight started there as there was no need for him to attack us when he could have very well just spoken to either me or Sebastian Sallow. The inferi were docile as the Relic allowed Sebastian to control them. See, he was looking for a way to control the dark magic to see if it can reverse the curse that Victor Rookwood placed on his sister. While unorthodoxly, as you saw, Sebastian Sallow never attacked me nor did he started the fight with Solomon Sallow. Solomon Sallow shot first. And you saw how the fight went." Iñaki said, staring at the Judge who nodded back.

"Sebastian Sallow also happens to be my boyfriend-"

Boyfriend? Sebastian felt his heart beat faster, wishing it was true.

"-we were seeing each other in secret as to confirm some of the school rumors about us."

The crowd gasped as he heard his sister huff quietly with a self satisfied voice, "I knew it!"

"As you saw from the fight, I was knocked out enough to nearly pass out. Enough to fool Mr. Sallow here-" Iñaki nods towards Sebastian before looking back to the Judge. "- to reasonably think that Solomon Sallow could have killed me. Solomon Sallow's death was that of a crime of passion as if you noticed, none of the spell Sebastian Sallow casted was an unforgivable until that green spell destroyed the rock in front of me and knocked me out a bit afterwards."

The courtroom murmured, approving of his actions, no longer painting him as a cold heart blooded murder but as a protective lover.

A title he didn't really hold.

He was protective...but not her lover.

"ORDER IN THE COURT ROOM!" The judge said as he slammed his gavel on the rune once more. The room was silent save of their breathing as the Judge stared at her once more.

"Why were you late? Where were you?"

Indeed Iñaki...where were you this entire time. Sebastian thought with a frown. He spent days looking for her without a sign. She found him instead.

"I needed to tie some loose ends with the Centaurs. I can't share details, but it was for exchange for their help in helping me take down Rookwood. I was able to just leave in time...you know how Centaurs are." Iñaki sheepishly smiled at the judge.

Sebastian knew it was a lie. It was that same smile that she gave him when she said she wouldn't go after Harrow when he found out what she and Natty were doing.

It was the same smile she gave to him before she vanished.

The judge nodded, believing in her lie before he called for a vote on whether to send him to Azkaban or not.

It was unanimous.

Sebastian Sallow would be walking out as a free man.

After the court session ended. Sebastian found he only had one major charge to serve - community service in St. Mungo. Specifically the sector that dealt with dark magic misuse for the entire summer.

He was alright with it as he felt Ominis hugging him once more the moment he could find him outside the courtroom. Anne was next to him, looking at Sebastian with tears in her eyes, apologizing for not believing him about what he said about Solomon. About Solomon nearly killing Iñaki.

"It's water under the bridge." He said as he hugged his sister who was finally, FINALLY talking to him once more and no longer saw him as something vile and unfamiliar. No longer seeing him as a monster as Solomon made him out to be.

"Where's Iñaki?" He finally said when he realized they were missing the one person he was wondering about the most.

"She went down to talk to someone in the Department of Mysteries." A clerk said, walking to him. "She said to find her at the entrance of the ministry."

When he found her, he gave her a hug and swung him around as she laugh before giving him a sad smile.

"You're free Seb, now what do you plan to do with your life?"

Sebastian frowned.

"Where were you? We were looking for you for days." He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I was around..." Iñaki mumbled looking away before looking back at him. "So what will you do now that you're free?" "None of this "What will I do as a free man". You didn't answer my question. Where were you? No body knew where you were for days." Sebastian said as she held her by her shoulders, staring at her, as if daring her to tell a lie.

"I can't tell you...not now." Iñaki said as her eyes darted around the room before looking back at him.

Sebastian took a deep breath and sighed as he said,

"Alright, but when we're out of here, I expect you to give me the full story."

"Of course." Iñaki gave him that smile again.

That sheepish smile.

Right than and there, Sebastian decided he'll get the truth out of her some way, some how.

...

[frobby]

I think it would be really funny if rin was the more helpful one around his house. Like u would think rin would be the disrespectful one who always bails on housework or mass but its actually yukio who would always have an excuse not to go or forget about chores to the point that rin just does them instinctively now

[drippingghoneyy]

Summary: Viktor needed some stress relief.

Genre/ Pairing: Smut, Established relationship, Viktor x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: MDNI!, SMUT 18+, BigDick!Viktor, tension, teasing, grinding, orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamics, pet names, piv, unprotected sex, nipple play, multiple orgasms, praise kink, overstimulation, creampie,... (lmk if I missed any!)

Word Count: 2.9k.

Notes: Just a quick draft I had saved!

I’ve been wanting to write about more people! So give me suggestions!

Reblog and like!! I read every comment, they make my whole day!

If you find any spelling errors, no you didn't. Grammarly don’t fail me now 🙂 If you don't like nsfw content, please don't read it!

"Hey, Victor, you okay?" you called out, poking your head into the lab. The room was filled with the faint buzz of machinery and the sterile scent of cleaning solvents. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Victor's head snapped up, his eyes briefly meeting yours before darting back to the paperwork scattered on the desk in front of him. His brow furrowed, and his jaw tightened, as if he was trying to hold back a tide of thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. He mumbled something incoherent, not really looking at you.

You stepped further into the room, your sneakers squeaking against the freshly mopped floor. The fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows on his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched into his features. His vest was half-unbuttoned, revealing a wrinkled shirt beneath, and his tie was askew. The space around him was a mess of half-finished experiments and discarded coffee cups. It was clear he'd been there for hours, possibly even days, working tirelessly.

Concerned, you approached him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensed under your touch, and you felt the warmth radiating from his body. "Victor, seriously, you need to take a break." You tried to keep your voice low, not wanting to startle him further. But as you looked into his eyes, you could see the storm brewing within, the unspoken words, the untouched pain, and the unresolved tension.

He took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes lingering on yours before they slid away again. He looked lost in thought, his mind racing a mile a minute. The silence grew heavier, the only sound being the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

The room was a testament to his obsession, a maze of beakers and wires, a silent witness to his solitude. The stark contrast of the cold, metallic surfaces and the soft glow of the computer screens only highlighted the starkness of his isolation.

You decided to sit beside him on the lab stool, your thighs brushing against his. He didn't react at first, but then his gaze flicked to you, his pupils dilating slightly. It was as if he'd forgotten you were there, or perhaps he'd just realized how close you were. The air grew thick with something unspoken, something charged and electric.

The room, which had been a whirlwind of chaos just moments before, suddenly felt very small. The scent of his cologne mixed with the sterility of the lab, creating a heady aroma that made your heart race. You could see the veins in his forearms as he clenched and unclenched his fists, his knuckles turning white against the edge of the desk. His eyes were dark and intense, flicking back and forth between you and the paperwork.

Your hand hovered over his, the warmth of your touch a stark contrast to the coolness of the metal beneath. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, trying to offer comfort without breaking the delicate tension. Victor's breath hitched, and his eyes shot back to yours, searching for something. Permission, maybe? You bit your lower lip and nodded almost imperceptibly.

And that was all it took. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. You gasped in surprise, but before you could say anything, he'd grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into his arms. His mouth found yours, hard and demanding, as if he were trying to devour you. You melted into the kiss, feeling the weight of his need, his desperation. His hands roamed over your body, grasping at your hips, sliding up your back, pulling you closer. You could feel the heat of him through your clothes, the evidence of his arousal pressing into your stomach.

With surprising gentleness, he turned and sat back down in the chair, his hands guiding you to straddle him. You winced slightly as you lowered yourself down, mindful of his weaker leg, but he shushed you, his hands firmly on your hips, his thumbs tracing circles of reassurance. You could feel his pulse racing under your palms as you began to grind against him, the fabric of your pants and his slacks the only barrier between you. His eyes never left yours, watching you with a hunger that was almost predatory, his pupils blown wide.

The friction grew more intense, and you could feel the heat of his arousal through your dampened panties. The fabric was a thin barrier that only served to heighten the sensation. You whined softly, the pressure building in your core. "What do you need?" he murmured, his voice low and gruff. You leaned in closer, your breath hot against his ear. "I need to feel you," you whispered, the words barely audible.

Victor's grip on your hips tightened, and he nodded. "Good," he murmured, his voice thick with need. He lifted you slightly, his hands deftly unbuttoning his pants and pushing them down. His erection sprang free, and you gasped at the sight of him. You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him, feeling the velvety skin, the heat, the steel of his arousal. His breath hissed out through clenched teeth, and his eyes slammed shut briefly before snapping back open. He adjusted you slightly, the tip of his cock now pressing against your clit through your panties.

You began to rock your hips in earnest, setting a rhythm that had your breath coming in short gasps. He groaned, his hands guiding you, urging you faster, harder. The fabric of your skirt rustled with every movement, a secret symphony of desire played out in the shadow of the lab's clutter. You leaned into him, your breasts pressing against his chest, and felt the thunderous beat of his heart matching the rhythm of your hips. The room spun around you.

"Faster," he breathed, his eyes burning into yours, his grip on your hips tightening. You obeyed, your movements growing more erratic as the pressure built. You felt the dampness of your panties, the fabric sticking to your skin, a testament to how turned on you were. You could feel every inch of him through the barrier, the veins, the heat, the throb of his need.

You leaned closer, your breath hot against his neck, and whispered, "Please, Victor, I need more." He chuckled lowly, his voice a rumble that vibrated through you. "Patience," he said, his voice a command, but the gentleness in his eyes belied his dominance. You bit your lip, the anticipation making you squirm on his lap. He leaned back slightly, watching you, savoring the sight of you desperate for his touch.

With one hand, he reached up to cup your face, tilting it back so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was intense, as if he could see straight through to your soul. "You first," he murmured, his voice thick with want. "I need to hear you scream for me." He pushed down harder, grinding his cock against your clit through the wet fabric. Your eyes rolled back, and a whine escaped your throat. You nodded frantically, eager to please him.

The pressure grew, coiling tighter and tighter, until it felt like a spring about to snap. You clutched at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "I'm close," you panted, your voice high and breathless. Victor's eyes darkened, and he whispered dirty promises into your ear, urging you on. "That's it," he growled, "Take it, take all of it." His thumb slid down and pushed aside the fabric, touching you skin to skin for the first time. The sensation was like an electric shock, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, soaking your panties and making your muscles spasm. You threw your head back, a keening cry escaping your lips, your eyes screwed shut. He didn't let up, his thumb rubbing circles around your clit, drawing out the pleasure until you were a trembling mess in his arms. "Victor," you gasped, your voice a hoarse whisper. "Oh god, fuck."

When the tremors subsided, you slumped against him, your breathing ragged. He leaned his forehead against yours, his chest heaving with his own desire. "Look at me," he ordered softly. You opened your eyes to find his gaze locked on you, his pupils dilated with lust. "I need you," he said, his voice a low growl. "I need you to be mine." You nodded, unable to form words, your body still pulsing with the aftershocks of pleasure.

His cock still rock-hard against your stomach. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and he stepped closer, the heat of his body enveloping you. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing aside your skirt, and you felt his fingers slip into your wetness, teasing you through the fabric. "Please," you begged, your voice shaky.

Victor leaned in, his mouth finding yours again. He kissed you deep, his tongue tangling with yours as he began to tug at your panties. You helped, eager to feel him skin to skin. He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours, and slid them down your legs, leaving them in a pool on the floor. Then he reached between you, freeing himself. You couldn't help but stare, his length bobbing with the force of his need.

He guided himself to you, his cock nudging at your entrance. "Ready?" he asked, his voice gruff. You nodded, your eyes wide with desire. He pushed into you, inch by inch, his movements deliberate and controlled. You felt yourself stretching around him, the sensation bordering on pain but oh so delicious. "Mine," he murmured, his teeth grazing your neck. "You're mine."

You wrapped your legs around him, urging him deeper, needing all of him. His hips began to move, his strokes slow and deep. You could feel every ridge, every vein of him, filling you up so completely.

As he fucked you, Victor whispered in your ear, his voice a dark symphony of desire. "You're so tight," he murmured, "so wet for me." His words were like a drug, sending shivers down your spine. "Every time you move, every little sound you make, it drives me fucking crazy." He placed his hand on your neck, his thumb stroking your pulse point, his other hand sliding up to cup your breast. His eyes never left yours, watching you intently, reading every little reaction on your face.

The lab around you faded into the background, the only thing that existed was the two of you, the desk a makeshift throne for your passionate encounter. He began to pick up the pace, his hips rocking into yours, a little faster, a little harder with each thrust. You couldn't help but moan, the sound echoing in the empty room.

He leaned down and tugged at the collar of your shirt, pulling it aside to expose your breast. His eyes raked over the soft flesh before his mouth closed over your nipple. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. The sensation was exquisite, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud as he sucked and bit, leaving a trail of heat across your skin. You felt his teeth graze you, just hard enough to leave a mark, a claim, and you arched into him, silently begging for more.

He pulled away, leaving you gasping, and whispered, "I want everyone to know you're mine." His voice was rough, his eyes dark with lust. He began to move faster, his hand sliding down to your ass to lift you, to meet him more fully with each stroke. The chair creaked beneath you, a rhythmic counterpoint to the slap of skin on skin.

You felt yourself tightening around him, another orgasm building. Your breath hitched, and you tried to keep quiet, but a moan slipped out. "I want to hear you," he said, his voice a low growl. "I want to hear how much you love this, how much you love me." His hand slid down to your clit, his thumb pressing and circling. You couldn't hold back anymore, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as he brought you to the brink once again.

"You're so beautiful when you come," he murmured, his eyes dark with pleasure. "So perfect." His strokes grew more urgent, his hips slamming into yours. His thumb worked you expertly, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. "I'm going to make you scream," he promised, his voice a whispered threat. "I'm going to make you come so hard you can't walk straight tomorrow."

You could feel your climax that has been building begin to spill over the edge, the heat pooling in your belly, spreading out through your limbs. "Please," you begged, your voice a desperate whine. "Please, Victor." He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Please what?" he taunted, increasing the pressure on your clit.

"Please," you gasped, your body on the edge, "please let me come." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Not yet," he whispered. "Not until you beg me for it. Not until you say my name like a prayer." And with that, he pulled his hand away, leaving you trembling with need. You looked up at him, desperation in your eyes, and whispered, "Victor, please, I need it, please, please, please..."

His eyes flared with satisfaction at the sound of his name on your lips, and he gave you a wicked smile. "Good girl," he murmured, his hand returning to your breast. He began to pluck at your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as his hips picked up their pace. His whispers grew more insistent, more demanding. "You want it?" he breathed into your ear. "You want to come all over my cock?" You nodded, unable to form words, your breaths coming in quick pants.

"Say it," he ordered, his voice a dark rumble. "Beg for it." You felt your cheeks flush with arousal at his words. "Victor," you whimpered, "please, let me come, I need it." He chuckled, the sound sending a thrill through you. "That's better," he said, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to make you gasp.

With a growl, he thrust into you harder, his movements becoming more erratic. You could feel the tension building in his body, his muscles tensing and releasing beneath your palms. "I'm going to fill you up," he promised, his voice strained. "You're going to take all of me."

You nodded frantically, your walls clenching around him, trying to hold him in. "Yes," you panted. "Please, Victor, I need it."

He slammed into you, the chair practically shaking beneath your weight, the sound echoing in the quiet lab. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding you faster, harder. "You're going to come with me," he said, his eyes dark and intense. "You're going to milk me dry."

You could feel the tension coiling tighter, the pressure in your core growing almost painfully intense. "I'm so close," you gasped. His eyes never left yours as he began to piston into you, his hips moving like a machine, each stroke hitting you in just the right spot.

"Come for me," he ordered, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Now." And as if your body was bound to his will, your orgasm crashed over you. You threw your head back, your mouth open in a silent scream as waves of pleasure consumed you. Victor's hips jerked, his eyes squeezed shut, and he groaned, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his warmth.

He held you there, his hands firm on your hips, his breath ragged in your ear. "Mine," he murmured, his voice a low growl of satisfaction. He didn't stop moving, his strokes slowing, becoming more gentle as your climax subsided. You felt him softening inside you, his grip on you loosening slightly.

"Victor," you whispered, your voice shaky. He leaned in, kissing you softly. "I've got you," he murmured, his arms wrapping around you. You felt safe, cherished in his embrace, despite the mess of the lab around you.

You pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his. "Do you feel better?" you asked, your voice tinged with concern. He gave you a shy, teasing smile, his eyes still dark with desire. "Much," he said, his voice a low rumble.

You slid off his lap, your legs wobbly with the aftershocks of pleasure. You bent down to pick up your discarded panties, feeling a small trickle of his cum leak out of you and onto the fabric. You blushed, but before you could hide them away, Victor's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. "Leave them on," he said, his voice firm. "It gives me something to look forward to later."

You blinked at him, surprised by his demand, but the heat in his gaze had you nodding. You stood up, the fabric clinging to your soaked skin, the evidence of your passion clear. You tugged your skirt down, trying to smooth it out, but it was a lost cause. You were a mess, and the thought made your cheeks burn even brighter.

Victor had already buttoned his pants back up, his clothes still rumpled from your hands. He looked up at you, his eyes raking over your body, taking in every inch of you. The way your shirt was bunched up, the red marks on your neck, the swollen lips. He looked like he wanted to devour you again, and the thought sent a thrill through your body.

"Thank you," you murmured, feeling shy and vulnerable.

Victor's smile grew, a wicked glint in his eyes, his voice thick with satisfaction, "You're welcome, love.”

[honeymoonblues]

The One Your Friends Don't Like

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Everyone has something to say when a girl has fun with the local freak.

Word count: 2.6k

Warning: Some cursing.

A/N: I had this one on the drafts for a long time. Silly little thing. Incredibly self indulgent. I usually make my fics with a gender neutral reader, but I felt this one needed to be fem! for the sake of the plot. Please, let me know if there are any spelling errors, English is not my first language.

You had never expected it to end the way it ended. 

In fact, you distinctively remember thinking no one would ever find out that you were passing notes in class. Why would anyone know?

Except Eddie Munson had a big fucking mouth. And you had a friend in common with him (sort of). 

The thing was, you were bored. Badly. And the biology professor had this superpower of putting everyone to sleep with his monotonous voice. So it wasn’t intentional when your spaced out gaze landed on him. On Eddie Munson, of all people.

Your pencil fell to the floor because you got startled when he smirked at you. And then, came the little note.

His handwriting was hideous, but legible. The paper seemed torn from another class’ book. You didn’t write anything back. Instead, you made a little grotesque cartoon of the professor, which Eddie seemed to appreciate very much.

“You think Munson is cute?”

How the fuck had Vicki already found out about it by lunch, you had no idea. But you were about to find out.

“I don’t-”, you started, but she didn’t let you finish.

“He told me that you were staring at him,” she scoffed smugly.

God, you hated that expression on her. The smile forming on your lips was totally betraying you, but you weren’t about to give her the satisfaction.

“And since when are you friends with Eddie Munson?”

“He’s friends with Kate’s brother, you know Gareth,” she waved her hand around, “they’re in that, uh… club together, and a band. He’s always hanging out at Kate’s.”

Asking her not to make a big deal out of it was useless, you knew her mind was already scheming to set you two up.

“You’re dating this idiot?!”

There was nothing you appreciated more in your friendship with Robin than her honesty. Even if sometimes she was too honest.

“We’re not dating! We just, uh… hanged out once.”

“Yeah, well, be careful. I haven't heard too many kind things about him.”

Her tone softened, meaning she was trying her best to understand you.

The truth is, it had been a date, no matter how much Eddie and you acted like you were above all that sort of stuff. 

His handwriting had been clearer on that one note, neater, with more thought behind it. You felt his big brown eyes on you while you read it, so you knew you had to act as cool as possible. As if him inviting you to a literal date wasn’t freaking you out. You didn’t even pass the note back, you just nodded in his direction, and he smiled while twirling his hair on his finger.

In the end, Vicki didn’t even had to set you up, Eddie asked you out himself, like a big boy (kind of). 

The guys leaving the club session looked at you like you had grown a second head. 

“Band practice is down the hall”, one of them snickered. That was Gareth, you assumed.

“I know”. You narrowed your eyes, holding your saxophone case a little tighter and breathing deeply. Gosh, and these were Eddie’s friends?

Immediately after, Eddie’s big eyes sparkled when he saw you outside the classroom. 

“Hey, you made it”.

Like the other boys, he wore the club’s t-shirt but this one looked particularly clean. You saved your comments to yourself, though, and just smiled back.

The moments you were deciding where to go were the most awkward. You could tell that Eddie wasn’t used to talking to many girls. No matter how much of a peacock he acted like when he was in a ten-foot radius of a cheerleader.

If there was a contest for Weirdest Location for a First Date, Eddie and you would’ve won first place. You both agreed on going to the Hawkins’ graveyard. The place worked to ease your nerves, somehow.

Many graves had stories you’d heard over the years. And of course, the metalhead guy loved to hear about them, tagging on with his versions or additions to them.

The date went well and it definitely helped to fuel both of your delusions of being cool and oh, so edgy. In reality, you were just two nerds walking and laughing in an inappropriate place, while not having the guts to admit this was a date. 

When the “hanging out” turned to actual dates, you knew it was going to be impossible to hide it from Robin. And you braced yourself for her reaction.

“How many times did you kiss him?”

If she'd asked a day before, you would confidently say ‘three times’. But after the makeout session the night before, it wasn’t like you could keep count of that.

Your skin crawled by imagining telling this to her, so of course, you omitted the question.

“No, wait wait! Don't answer that. I need a complete timeline: from the first date to the first kiss, to now.”

You scoffed.

“What are you waiting for? Start talking.” 

Oh, she was serious about it.

So you talked, knowing there wasn’t any way of getting out of it.

She already knew about the graveyard, so there was little comment to make about it. 

The words you chose were careful, though. Robin wasn’t too thrilled about Munson at all, so you had to put effort in making him look as good as possible while keeping it in the realm of possibility. 

You spoke about how witty he was, but didn’t mention the fact that you held your breath the first time you walked into his room. Not that you were the picture of cleanliness, let’s be honest, but you had wondered just how long had it been since his sheets had seen the inside of a washing machine. (Not like that had stopped you from rolling around on his bed, anyway).

You talked of how he was actually a bookworm and really interesting to converse with, but kept quiet about how, just on your third date, he immediately asked you to stay the night after getting his hands under your shirt. 

You told Robin about his encyclopedic knowledge of music, similar to Robin's, but carefully omitted the fact that he had bitten you despite you asking him not to. You had moaned at it, either way.

Trusting him was a hard task. Sure, maybe you were paranoid, but this guy made up stories as a hobby. And even if he didn’t, he seemed too eager to impress any girl in his vicinity to be a hundred percent trustful.

“Oh, I don't believe you.” That phrase came out of your mouth so often now, it was almost funny.

“I swear! Cross my heart and hope to die.” Dramatic as always, of course.

“Sure, whatever you say, man.”

But truths and lies weren’t that important when he kissed you so sweetly. As sweet as this brute could be. It was very endearing. 

You didn’t give a fuck if that fight he was telling you about was real, or if his band was as awesome as he said, not when he pulled your hair and bit your lip in that way that made you shiver. 

Let him talk, you thought, he had a cute mouth anyway.

Between nerdy conversations about Lord of the Rings or music, and heated makeout sessions on his bed, or yours (whichever was available at the time), there was always a debate that bubbled up between you two.

“Doesn’t that fuck up your brain or whatever?” 

“princess, it’s 1986. Everyone smokes weed.” You had stopped fighting that nickname long ago, you even stopped cringing at it, somehow.

“Not everyone!” 

“Yeah, well, it’s you and Vicki against the world, then.”

It’s not like you ever expected him to change his ways; that was stupid. But it was annoying when he expected you to just… be okay with it.

Still, he stopped smoking when he was with you —wow, what a gentleman!— and you ignored the fact that he may or may not sell pot. Closing your eyes and letting his hands wander was the best way to forget everything about it.

The sun was already setting on a beautiful Saturday afternoon when you brought it up.

“Remember how I told you Robin doesn’t like you much? Like, at all.” Your breath felt a bit shallow, you had kissed for what felt like hours at this point.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, uh… It’s mostly because she told me she saw you and Chrissy Cunningham together the other day… You know, alone and everything.” Your gaze was unblinking, boring into his eyes as if you were trying to read his mind.

His blush was a little more intense than before, reaching his ears, but he didn't hesitate in answering, “I never talked to her before, Robin must have mistaken me for another person.”

Your silence must have freaked him out a bit, because he croaked a tiny “I swear!” that sounded quite pathetic, even for him.

The intention of this whole afternoon was to talk to him about being exclusive. You hadn’t been mad about the Chrissy thing, really. It wasn’t like Eddie and you were official at all. Even if he liked to make it very obvious that you were together every time he crossed paths with you at school. But now that he was denying everything? Yeah, the exclusivity thing didn’t sound so appealing to you anymore.

Because you’d lied. It wasn’t just Robin that caught him, you were there, too.

“Are you sure, Eddie? I’m not… I’m not mad about it.” But you were starting to be.

“Yes, yes! It’s funny, actually… I, uh, had like, the biggest crush on her in middle school, you know? But not anymore, princess! I don’t even look in her direction, I promise.”

You felt like you hadn’t blinked in the last five minutes. 

Fuck this! You didn’t want to be his girlfriend. That was never the intention with this whole thing. You just wanted to have some damn fun for once.

“Okay…” You said carefully, “just… don’t expect Robin to talk nicely to you, okay?”

“I’m used to people not liking me, princess, nothing new.”

Your smile was tight, and the way he twirled his hair had never bothered you this much before.

“So, I heard there’s this party next Saturday...” You said.

The mirror smiled back at you after you applied your lipstick. You were already a little tipsy after the pregame at Vicki’s, but you did your makeup flawlessly in front of her bathroom mirror. 

’Hot’ was the right word to describe you that Saturday, you felt confident, you looked cool, and you were definitely ready for some kissing and smooching. If you ended up in Eddie’s van? Even better.

Your friends were not so thrilled about seeing Eddie, not after the Chrissy thing, but they knew they couldn’t do much to stop you. Those were your bad decisions to make.

The party was flooding with people, and it took an absurd amount of time to find Eddie, even when he was the flashiest thing in the room. 

By the time you got to him, you were way too drunk. No longer just tipsy. The unknown substance in your red cup was doing its job, and you could barely keep steady on your feet when you found yourself in his arms.

Your friends were cringing hard when you kissed him in front of them, staining his face with lipstick. He was very, very pleased with it, though. Even if he felt heavily judged by everyone in your circle.

In the end, he ended up taking you home, but not in the way you’d have liked. Because the moment you stepped outside and started to walk to his van, heavy nausea hit you with the cold air of the night, 

Your vomit stained his sneakers a bit, but he didn’t complain. In fact, he had never been this gentlemanly before. Even your friends, usually very unimpressed with him, were surprised.

He made sure you drank water, wrapping you in his jacket and then drove you home, making sure you made it up the stairs without falling and tucking you in like a good, responsible boy,

“I’m sorry I ruined the night.” You murmured sleepily before he left.

“Are you kidding? You throwing up was so metal! I’m honored I got to witness it.”

He was such a freak.

You were tugging at your hair, frustrated. After just finishing it, you accidentally tipped your glass of water over all your homework, so you had to redo it. Then, your friends who were supposed to hang out at your house didn’t show up, and you had cooked for them. And while you tried to calm down with a nice hot coffee, your favourite mug slipped from your hands and shattered into a million pieces on the ground.

You needed to call Eddie. Maybe he’d help you laugh about it a little.

The phone call had been 30 minutes long at this point. You sighed, feeling a little better, but still guilty for talking about yourself and your own problems nonstop.

“I feel like I complain too much sometimes,” you chuckled.

“Princess, I know the female population, okay? They are always complaining about everything, all the time. I’m used to it, don’t worry.” 

He knows the what, now?

“Eddie, what the fuck?” But the idiot kept on talking.

“Yeah, princess, it’s fine. I mean, we guys don’t give a shit about most things. But that’s just natural, you know? It’s like, biological.”

Hanging up on him had never felt so good. No goodbye, no nothing. Seriously, who does he think he is?

You needed to call Robin. Maybe she’d help you laugh about it a little.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

This conversation wasn’t meant to be had over the phone, but the winter break had just started, and you were leaving on vacation the next day. Leaving this matter to stretch over time would just make it worse. You wanted to enjoy your holidays without anything weighting on your mind.

Not that he could ever convince you to stay with him, anyway. There had been a long talk with your friends about all this. And the jury had decided he should be executed out of your life. You agreed, of course.

There was only so many things one could ignore in the name of fun. And when your frustration started to surpass the enjoyment, what was the point? 

He was not the type of guy you could introduce to your parents. He was not even the type of guy you could see with a steady relationship. You realized you wanted a little bit more romance than he could get you.

So you mentally prepared yourself for this phone call, for his insistence, for his endless questions, even for some anger.

“I didn’t mean to tell you this over the phone, I’m sorry.” Your voice was steady, clear, no sign of doubt.

“Oh…” Silence. And then, a moment after: “It’s okay, I get it. Thank you for these last few months.”

“Uh, Eddie-”

“Goodbye.”

You stuttered a goodbye, but it was too late, he had already hung up. 

Shortest phone call of your life.

“Honey, he sells drugs. You didn’t know that?”

“Not until very recently…” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Your friend laughed, shaking her head.

Now, your friends would have something to tease you about for the rest of your life. And you’d have all that time to pretend you didn’t enjoy his company or act like you didn’t notice what a mess he was.

And maybe he’d try to contact you again, try to get close. But you’d ignore him, walking awkwardly past him in the school hallway.

Still, he’d live forever in your mind as the one your friends didn’t like.

[tweedlydumbtweedlydoo]

Comfort in Unexpected Places | Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary: you and JJ broke things off, but whose arms *cough*-bed do you fall into looking for comfort?

A/N: Hope you enjoy! Trying to clean up my drafts. x

Tag list is at the end. Let me know if you want to be added xx

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********************************************************************************************NOT MY GIF, CREDIT TO OWNERS

“Me and y/n are over. I broke it off last night.”

“Ok good, cause I slept with her last night.”

"After all we've been through-" You follow JJ down to the dock where he's untying the boat, "You're just going to end things?!"

"We both deserve better. Look we've been through a lot, but I think the feelings are just not there anymore, you know?" He shrugs, "I don't want to string you along anymore."

"String me-" You scoff, "string me along? Whatever, JJ. You're such a dick and I can't believe I wasted so much time on you."

You stomp away, pissed and broken hearted. After all this time, all this effort you'd put into the relationship and into JJ and he ends things? You'd done everything to try and help him get on to a better path.

You find yourself a few drinks deep at the local dive bar a cigarette hanging between your lips, you take a drag.

"When did we start smoking?"

You blow the smoke out, recognizing the voice, "a girl can have a cigarette every now and then."

He slips in the stool next to you, waving down the bartender, "I'll have what she's having." He smirks a little, side eyeing you, "and put her drinks on my tab."

"oh?" You crush the cigarette in the ash tray, "You're going to pay for my drinks?"

He shrugs, "a little birdie told me you were nursing a broken heart. I figured it's the least I can do."

"Word travels fast."

"You deserved better than Maybank anyways." Rafe places a hand on the back of the stool, leaning toward you, "I've been waiting for him to fuck up so I can swing in and save you."

You roll your eyes, laughing, "You're so stupid," You push him away from you. "You've never once looked my way. I'm not your type."

He chuckles, but leans in once more, eyes locked on yours, "Now, how do you know you're not my type? Maybe you've had your eyes on the wrong guy and haven't noticed me yet?" It was the truth. He'd had his eyes on you all this time, but knowing you were Maybank's there was no overstepping. You weren't his. Now though? Now you were anyone's. And Rafe wanted to make you his tonight.

You feel yourself heat up at the look he's giving you. A look of passion and longing. Suddenly you start to look at Rafe differently. Had he always been this hot and desirable? Maybe it was the alcohol but when Rafe asked you if you wanted to get out of there, you didn't hesitate to take his hand and follow him wherever he took you.

~

The next night a local party, you'd stepped away to grab a drink when JJ and the rest of the Pogues arrived. Rafe couldn't wait for this. The moment he could rub it in JJ's face. JJ had fumbled losing you. You were beautiful, funny and Rafe realized he wished he'd over stepped the boundary sooner so he could have had more time with you.

"Hey man," Rafe approached JJ, "How's it going?"

"Fine," JJ replied, "What do you want?"

"Oh you know," he sips his beer, "I was just wondering about y/n? You two showed up separately tonight."

“Me and y/n are over. I broke it off last night.” JJ says.

Rafe can't help the smirk that plays against his lips, “Ok good, cause I slept with her last night.”

If looks could kill. JJ's sure he didn't hear him right, "Excuse me?"

"y/n." Rafe points to you at the drink table, "I slept with her last night."

"You son of a bitch-" JJ lunges at Rafe, who is chuckling and shakes JJ off.

"Hey man, you broke it off with her. That's on you. I'd say you lost the best thing that could have happened to you. But I also have to thank you." He watches you heading toward him and smiles at you, patting JJ on the shoulder without even looking his way, "Cause now she's my treasure."

~

Thanks for reading! Comments, likes and reblogs always welcomed and appreciated! x

[mydarlingclaudia]

every word I meant to say

note : ermmmm hi. don't ask where I went for like almost a month work is eating me alive and I was sad. this was inspired by that the unsent project thing andddd idk if I really like this it's def ooc but I was thinking about it again today and this has been in my drafts since September so I figured why not

wc : 2.1k

tags : @luvrgreyy @clitorphosis @sonya-semyonova

desc : letters that went unsent. kind of unrequited love, angst (???), more Leon focused, re2r!Leon - DI!Leon, fem!reader, ooc, not proofread

"I meant to write sooner, I really did. I know it's been a year, my life is so different now, I don't think you'd even believe me if I tried to explain it. I hope you're doing better than I am, I'm happy you weren't able to move to the city with me."

Leon hasn't written a letter since, what, his first few years in the academy? Maybe the end of his senior year of high school? He can't really remember, but he knows that this letter is important because it's to you, his friend he hasn't seen since the night he left for Raccoon City. This isn't even an actual letter, he's scribbling out what he thinks might be good excuses as to why he hasn't talked to you in a year on the back of pieces of scrap paper he took from the office.

He's supposed to be asleep right now, same as everyone else in boot camp, but it's been a year since Raccoon City and he's wondering if you ever tried to reach him. Maybe you tried to go to Raccoon City to look for him, only to see the pile of rubble that stood in its place, sectioned off by the government. Maybe you thought he was dead, he wouldn't blame you.

You and Leon had stuck together all throughout high school, even managed to stay friends when he went off to the police academy and you moved a few hours away for college. He doesn't even know if your address is still the same, he really hopes it is, there's no phone-books in boot camp if he wanted to try and call you, you're supposed to have your loved ones numbers memorized.

The last time Leon saw you was the night before he was supposed to move to the city, before he got a letter in the mail the next morning telling him not to come in, he really wishes he had listened. You were so happy for him, starting out as a city cop was a big deal and he had worked so hard to get there, you and a few friends had thrown him a going-away-party, telling him not to forget you once he got to the city. Leon couldn't forget you if he tried.

You had talked about moving to the city with him for a short period of time, it was really just ramblings the two of you kept bringing up. "Oh, when we live in the city..." "I can come visit you at work..." "I'll handle dinner, you'll handle cleaning..." Nothing ever really came of those ideas, but it gave him a warm feeling in his stomach knowing you wanted to come to the city with him.

He hopes you’ve been well, that life has been kinder to you than it has to him. Leon hopes you got that job you were gushing about the last time he saw you, he hopes you still think of him on his birthday because he thinks of you often.

He shouldn’t have gone to Raccoon City, he should’ve stayed home the day he left and instead stopped by your house to bother you about going to see a movie. Or he should have taken you to lunch, anything would’ve been better than walking into a city that was beyond saving.

"I’m not really sure what I’m saying, but I know I miss you. How have you been? I hope I’m able to come and visit soon, everything’s been moving so fast, but I’ll figure something out. Maybe we can get dinner, or something. Whatever you want, I’ll pay for it, don’t worry."

Leon's hands shake a tiny bit when he thinks of you, it's that school boy nervousness that movies portray whenever there's a boy with a crush on a girl who he knows is probably too out of his league. You were friends, at least.

"You're done with school now, right?" He knows you are. "I wish I was there for the graduation ceremony, I know your parents are proud. Do you remember my graduation party? Someone spiked the punch and we both ended up passed out in the bathtub at your house, you looked really pretty that night. I hope your graduation was better than mine. This would probably have been better as a phone call, but I don't know, you said letters were always more thoughtful.

– Leon"

–

That letter never got sent. Every letter needs an envelope, Leon just never got around to finding one, but he kept that scrap piece of paper tucked inside his pillowcase on the odd chance that he got his hands on one. He had stricter rules to follow than the other recruits, being legally dead and all.

But even after he got out of boot camp, he kept the letter. It's hidden away in some drawer in his house, he's not sure where, though.

He didn't make it into the army, he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but being in the position he was in now wasn't much better. He's stronger now, hardened, more mature.

Leon's written a few more letters to you over the years, ones that still never got sent because he either deemed them unworthy or because he became unsure of himself halfway through writing it. But he hasn't thrown any of them away, he'll send them one day, he swears it.

Leon's not using you as a way of journaling, either, even though he should find some way to actually write down his thoughts to get them out of his head. What he writes to you is mostly memories, telling you that his life keeps changing and that he misses you. He knows you're different by now, too. You're both grown, no longer in high school, no longer in college or the academy. If he could turn back time, go anywhere other than Raccoon City, he would. He thinks that's selfish of him, him not being there would've left Claire and Sherry in that city, but how would he have even known?

"Me again, hope you're doing better than I am." Leon's way with words gets worse and worse by the week, not that he cares. "I met someone who kind of reminded me of you, she's a sweetheart, like you. You'd probably become fast friends if you were ever able to meet."

Leon's not allowed to tell you about his mission in Spain, or about the president's daughter. President Graham is putting more body-guards in place for his daughter once she steps foot in D.C. again, Leon's sure the president considered appointing Leon as one of them at some point since breaking the news that she was going to be coming back home safely.

Leon should stop thinking about you so much, it's not like you were his only friend in the world, you've probably forgotten him, anyway.

"My life is still different, but yours probably is, too. This probably sounds stupid, but I miss being in high school. You probably don't, your mom was up your ass all the time and you worked yourself to the bone. Has that changed at all?

I remember that one year I went to Thanksgiving at your house, your uncles were all drunk and your cousins kept trying to get me to come sit with them, your grandpa was trying to get me interested in football. I haven't had a holiday like that since then, your family was always really nice to me."

He's not sure what to say anymore, these letters always just end up dragging out, but Leon has a lot of memories and he hopes you think of them as often as he does.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited. It's harder for me to get time off of work these days, even though I could really fucking use it. I promise one day I'll come back, it's just not going to be for a little while. Just don't do anything dumb.

– Leon"

–

Those letters he's been writing you have piled up in the drawer of his nightstand.

He's definitely sure that your address has changed by now, you're probably not even in the same state anymore. He could always try to find you on Facebook, explain everything that's been building up over the years in a simple text, but there's still rules he's supposed to follow even in his personal life.

Leon didn't stop writing, though. The letters did eventually get shorter, he's not sure if you like the same things anymore or if you'd even be interested.

He writes now mostly about how different his life would be if he was with you, if he had just asked you out in high school or kissed you the night he was supposed to leave for Raccoon City. It almost feels real to him when he goes to sleep, but that might just be the alcohol numbing his brain, not the dream of you sleeping next to him or the feeling of your breath on the back of his neck, not even the little pitter-patter off tiny footsteps coming from down the hallway.

It does make him feel a bit pathetic, dreaming of a life with someone he hadn't talked to in years. Leon can't help but think of you, he always thought you were pretty, and the past always lives in the back of his mind, but it comes alive late at night.

You're an entirely different person by now, someone who he hasn't had the opportunity to meet yet. You're probably married, maybe you even have a few kids running around, Leon's jealous of that. That could've been him, but it's not. But he's not even sure if you'd recognize each other if you passed by on the street, so is it even worth it to dwell on all the maybe's?

"I'm not sure I'll get to visit you for a while, not without a lucky fucking twist of fate, anyway."

All these letters are starting to sound the same, but Leon clings onto the thought of someday sending them to whatever corner of the country you were hiding in and hoping that there's still room in your life for a stranger.

"Do you still want me over for dinner? You don't know what I'd give to just eat a shitty meal with you right now."

You don't know what he'd give to do anything with you, really. He knows that there's a lifetime worth of things he's missed out on and that maybe every once in a while you think about him in the same way he thinks about you.

"I don't know how to ask this, but are you married? I know you'd look stunning in a wedding dress." You probably are, you're a catch, who wouldn't want to put a ring on your finger? Your husband's probably a better man than he is, too. One who hasn't had years worth of trauma jammed into his brain with the proof of it marked across his body, your husband probably takes you out on a date every week, maybe even surprises you with breakfast in bed and kisses the nape of your neck to gross out your kids. "I really hope you're happy, in my head you are.

I wanted that to be us, I never told you, but I was a chicken-shit kid and didn't know how to say it. You show up in my dreams sometimes, you deserve nothing but the best. I meant to get back in touch with you forever ago, but I think it's probably too late.

– Leon"

–

Two years after his last letter and Leon's still thinking of you, seventeen years after Raccoon City and the image of you sitting across from him for the last time still loops in his mind. He doesn't really remember your voice but he knows that you thought handwritten letters were romantic, and he still reads over the ones he meant to send to you but kept avoiding.

He's done with the letters, hasn't written one in a long time. But he just got back from California and your old favorite song is playing on the radio, and he's remembering how in love he is with your memory.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I'm too old for this and I'm sure you'd tease me if we had somehow kept in touch. I don't blame you if you thought I died in Raccoon City, I hope you're still alive and that life is good to you.

You were always important to me, I think you've given me something to cling to over the years. This letter won't find you and I'm not even really sure if I want it to, but I hope you'd still call me if you were able to. You wouldn't believe the things I've seen, but I'm happy you never got to see them.

Love, Leon

p.s. I'd say I love you but it feels like something you'd say in person"

[webslingingslasher]

I'm dying for there to be a fic where the reader is Stark's daughter and tells Peter that he has to watch her, Peter does it and the more he does it the more they connect the two and end up dating in secret, but one day reader discovers it and then angs to fluff??? Would you do it, i love how you write yes and thank you

*cleaning out my inbox/drafts* this is an old one but i loved it so much mcu peter HAD to make a comeback for this. // a little different than what you asked.

--

you're livid and peter's scared.

your dad had shared a new piece of information in passing but it brought everything crumbling down. peter, your boyfriend, wasn't who you thought he was.

the person you thought was honest and gentle was really just a lying snake. he can wear manipulation well. even now, with wide eyes and a panicked grin you can't picture him hurting you like this. but you can feel it.

'hi, baby.' he knows you're mad, he's trying to approach this calmly.

'you're a fucking liar.' you just brought everything down to a negative level, peter feels his shoulders slump. he doesn't know what he did or how he lied. 'i'm sorry.' whatever he did caused venom to be directed his way and he doesn't like it at all.

'no you're not. you're a filthy, lying scumbag.' he's not trying to invalidate your feelings, but you're being really fucking mean to him and he really doesn't like this treatment from you. he's never been so hurt in his life, the person he loved with everything in him, can't get enough insults out their mouth.

'why are you talking to me like this?' he sounds pitiful and for a moment your heart breaks for him, you know how much you're hurting him right now but he broke your trust.

'my dad told me. i can't believe i fell for your bullshit, or was it all him? you're just some little drone for my daddy?' it was a blur of sarcasm and betrayal, and peter truly has no idea what he's done.

'what did i do? please tell me what i did.' he's pleading, he'd do anything to make it right. you scoff, everything seems so fake.

'my dad planted you into my life and you wormed your way into being my boyfriend.'

peter freezes, his stiff shoulders are your answer. 'it's true?' your voice cracked, the deception has your insides curling. you thought peter would deny it and kiss you a hundred times and tell you he wasn't that type of guy.

but he is and he did it.

'peter, it's true?' why do you want to cry? you were the one that was swindled. it hurts because you trusted him, it hurts because you thought he loved you just as much as you did him.

there's a new feeling, it's rage. you shared so much of yourself with him for nothing, you wasted time on him. you move on your own accord and you push your weight into his shoulders, trying to throw him back, it's useless. he doesn't even budge, but he still lets you try with everything in you.

'you're piece of shit! i... i fucking hate you!' the word has tears pricking your eyes. peter felt his entire heart shatter, he thinks you just told him the worst thing he's ever heard.

'i fucking loved you, peter. you were my everything. i loved you with everything in me, and it was all built on a giant lie. why would you do that to me?'

loved, loved, loved, loved.

peter goes numb, there's nothing to fight for, you didn't love him anymore. you push on his chest, he feels nothing, he moves with your motion. 'fucking say something!'

he blinks, he says the first thing on his mind. the only thing on his mind. 'i love you.' it enrages you even further, does he think it's a joke? 'fuck you, peter.' and with that, you turn to leave his room, his house, him.

peter might've messed up but he can't let you leave without trying to save this. he knows he fucked up. 'wait! don't leave yet, just let me explain it, okay? then you can go back to hating me.' the ending sentence felt like battery acid on his tongue.

you stand still. you’ve been hurt by him but you still love him no matter what you say, and that feels like a kick in the chest to yourself. if he can, you'll let him try and dig himself out of this hole.

'this, what we have, it's real. everything i did as your boyfriend was real. i love you with everything in me, you know i do.' you don't look like you believe it, it looks like you think he's just telling you what you want to hear.

'your dad...' peter doesn't know how he got here, he didn't expect it all to come out. 'look, i've always liked you, okay? you know that, we've talked about how when i first met you i was head over heels for you. your dad knew that too and he hated it. but then you were all sad about your friend so he suggested i just... befriend you.'

'suggested or told?' peter swallows hard, this is tricky even for him. 'i don't know. i just had the opportunity to talk to you and i took it. all your dad did was give me an in, that's it. everything else was all me, i promise.'

you sigh heavily, it sounds like something your dad would do. 'then why wouldn't you tell me this when we started dating?' peter gestures to you and all your fury. 'i didn't want this to happen. i didn't want you to doubt me. us. i didn't want you to doubt us.'

'so he told you to be my friend. nothing else?' peter winces, there's more to it and you're not sure if you want to hear it. 'okay, maybe he said to keep an eye out for you.' your face drops, peter's quick to keep talking. 'but i heard that as befriend! how could i keep you safe if we're not friends, right?'

it's not working, you seem more sad than mad now and peter prefers your anger. 'and when he saw how happy you were with me it changed and he gave me the go ahead to ask you out.' you'll bite your tongue on that one, you know it's because peter's a stickler for a father's blessing.

'when did he back out of the picture, peter?' the question un-eases him, and you have a feeling you know why. you pray it's not what you think, but it is.

'a couple months into dating.' peter jumps to continue, 'he never told me to date you, he just said it was a good thing and he was happy i was keeping you busy and making you happy. he gave me a little money for dates, but that's it, i swear.'

peter was taking money from him?

'so, while i was falling in love with you, my dad was paying you off? nice, peter. that's a real nice guy act.'

peter knows how it sounds, that's why he felt like he couldn't spit it out. the more time went on, the less he felt the need to share. 'that's not what it was, all he wanted was for me to be your friend, i promise. i'm the one that went a step further, i'm the one that wanted to be your boyfriend.'

you roll your eyes, how dumb does he think you are? 'of course you wanted to be my boyfriend, you were getting paid.' you couldn't be further from the truth, peter felt bad taking his money but it was to keep you happy and that's all he ever wanted to do.

he's failing pretty hard right now.

'no, that's not what it was. i was the one that planned everything, everything we built was because of me.'

'right. and he was just sponsoring it?'

peter's never fought harder for anything in his life. you were on the line. 'he pulled out when it started to get real. he said it was on me to take care of you and i did. i have been. i'm not lying, your dad might have put you into my life but every single part of me loving you was real and all me.'

you want to believe him. you want him to be telling the truth. and maybe if it all started because your dad wanted him to look out for you, you could look past it. but for him to double down and start taking money when you were calling him boyfriend makes you feel sick.

peter knows it's not working. 'baby, please-' you cut him off, 'don't you dare call me that, we're done. it's over. hope it was worth it.'

panic fills him, he suddenly feels hot. for a second peter sees black dots, he swears he's about to pass out. 'no, no, no. don't do this, don't do this to me.'

how did peter go from trying to salvage it to ruining it beyond repair?

your arms cross over your chest, it's a way to guard your hurting heart. it's not fair. you gave him so much of yourself just to learn it was all built on a lie, you can't choose between breaking out into a sob or wanting to punch his face.

'i really loved you, peter.'

'you still do. i know you do. you can't just stop loving me out of nowhere. i know i hurt you and i know i broke your trust but you can't stop loving me.'

you feel empty inside. peter was right, he hurt you. he hurt you big time. 'i'm going to try.' you can see how wet his eyes are, if he drops a single tear you'll go back on every word of yours. you have to leave and stand up for yourself because if you don't it'll be proof that he can treat you however he wants.

'please don't do this. i'll do anything, i'll... i'll...' he's drawing blanks, for the first time ever peter doesn't know how to fix anything. 'please don't leave me. i'll be better, i'll be who you need. i love you so much, please don't do this to me.' peter's grasping at straws and you feel your chest rattle when you tell him you're leaving.

peter drops to his knees, he's begging. 'i'm sorry, i'm so so sorry. i should've told you when we first started dating- no! i should've never done it, i should've told your dad to... to fuck off and, and, i'm so sorry! please don't break up with me, please.'

you've lost all edge, you feel just as broken.

'goodbye, peter.'

----

it's been three days of reckoning and you're in a terrible mood. the blame has shifted, after you dumped peter and returned home to your bed you thought long and hard about it and realized that peter would've never done it if your dad didn't get involved.

if your dad didn't drop peter in as an informant, you wouldn't be here. if your dad didn't tell peter to buddy up with you, he'd still be your boyfriend.

you don't hate peter anymore, you're just sad. instead, you hate your dad. you hate how he ruined everything you had and ruined all your trust in him. you've refused to speak to him for three days, this morning he had enough of it when you slammed your door in his face.

he promptly allowed himself in and looked around your disheveled room, he knows something's wrong. 'woah. easy on, teen angst. talk to your dad, what's going on?'

you pretend he's not in the room with you. 'is something wrong? do you want me to call your boyfriend?' of course he wants peter over, he wants him to spy on you so your dad can corner him and sweat him out until peter spills.

you know how peter is and your dad took advantage of that.

'i broke up with peter. leave me alone.' there's a ring of silence, your dad is in shock. it would explain the sudden excuses on why peter can't come over, it would also explain your sour attitude.

'why would you do that?' because of him. because your dad had to get involved in your love life. 'because of you. you planted him in my life and paid him off to date me. i hate you.'

'is that what he told you?'

you don't know why you're talking to him. 'basically.' your dad sighs and sits on the edge of your bed, you resist the burning urge to kick his back.

'is this about what i said the other day? honey, i didn't ask him to date you and i didn't pay him off. i paid him when he helped me redo the lab. he must've gotten confused on the reasoning.'

you think about it. the lab was renovated right around the time you started dating and was finished right around when you became official. and peter did the brunt of heavy lifting and furniture shifting. he even had to reschedule a date because he was going to stay up all night to wrap up all the cords and label them to keep track.

'and for what it's worth, the kid's always liked you. i saw it on his face the second you shook his hand and i told him absolutely not. but the more i thought about it the more i thought why not?'

you're not saying anything but you're holding on to every word he says. 'i got tired of you moping around the place because of that brat you called a friend so i suggested he keep an eye out for you and be a friend if you needed one. honey, i knew what i was doing. i knew what was going to happen.'

peter left a lot of this out. a lot.

'he said you told him it was his job to take care of me now.' your dad laughs. 'yeah, i did. when he came to me shaking and halfway begging to let him be your boyfriend, i told him that he would have to grow a pair and take care of you.'

your dad turns and gives you a light smile, he pats your leg over the blanket. 'i don't think any part of it was a lie, kiddo. i just gave him the greenlight to do what he wanted to do the second he met you.'

tears sting your eyes, you think about how crushed peter looked. you imagine the tear in his heart was far greater than yours. you heard something and made your own assumption and peter can't back himself to save his life so you walked away from it entirely.

you were so mean to him. you belittled him and did the worst possible thing you could do. you told him you hated him. you blink fast to clear your eyes, tears start falling instead. you've been so mad you haven't been able to process what you did but it's hitting now and you feel broken.

'i told him i hated him. i've never said that to him, he was so sad. i was so mean to him, dad. i was calling him names and...' your breath catches, you feel like your throat’s closing up. 'i think i broke his heart.'

you curl up, you want to be left alone, you want to punish yourself. instead your dad tells you to 'get your sorry ass up and go apologize to your boyfriend.' it's a very short pity party.

---

you rushed his front door. you felt like the longer you waited the closer your window closed. you stupidly blocked his number so now you're unaware if he's tried to reach out at all. you're knocking so hard your knuckles hurt.

'oh my good-' you push past may. it's incredibly rude and you'll have to add her to your apology train but the first and most important stop is peter.

'where's-'

peter steps out from his room, he looks at you cautiously and doesn't get halfway through your name before you're running to him and wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing yourself against him. it's a full bodied hug.

'i'm so sorry and i love you. i love you so so much, i love everything about you. i love your voice in the morning, i love how you always give me an extra kiss at night to repel bed bug bites, i love how you never give me shit when i don't bring a jacket to the movies even though i'm gonna steal yours because i always get cold. i love how you always make me a bowl of cereal after we-'

'may.'

'-watch a movie. i love how you grew your hair out because i asked you. i love how you always ask to kiss me first. i love how you love me.' you squeeze him tighter.

'i told you i hated you and that couldn't be further from the truth. i love you so much and i was so mean to you and i just don't want you to think i hate you. i could never hate you, peter. i should've never said that, i can love you and be mad at you at the same time.'

peter quietly shushes you, it settles the bubble of anxiety in your chest. he's calming you down, he's doing what he always does when you're inches away from a panic attack. peter gently pulls at your hands around his neck to move them to his waist, it's instantly more comfortable, you're able to bury yourself into him.

'i don't want to be broken up anymore.' your voice cracks, you don't know what you'll do if he says no. you're spiraling, the consequences of your actions are falling into place. you're going to lose him.

peter pulls you back into reality. he always knows when you're too far gone, you can't imagine life without him anymore. 'calm down for a second, okay? i'm not going anywhere. i'm right here.' he turns his head back to his room, may's doing that thing where she pretends she doesn't see or hear what's going on but she's actually holding on to every word.

'wanna go lay down?' you nod fast and pull away to tug him into his own room, peter swears he sees a frown on his aunt's face. the second he shuts his door you start in on round two, you stop when he cups your face and softly shushes you again.

'please stop panicking.'

'i'll panic until you take me back. i should've never broken up with you, peter. i was yelling at my dad and then he told me what actually happened and we were both wrong and now you hate me.'

peter's eyes are shining, he's getting a little amusement from your distress and you allow it. it's the least you could give him after breaking him down into nothing.

'i told you to stop blocking me when you get mad at me.' you want to hit yourself in the face, you knew you missed out on something. 'never again, i promise. i can't do this again, peter. if i'm about to have a panic attack over something that's a non-issue i'll hate myself forever.'

'you really want to hate someone, don't you?' you seal your mouth closed. he's right, you've been saying it too much. even if he said it with a tilt in his voice you take it seriously.

'since someone is a little reactionary, i'll show you my phone.' peter paws at his back pocket before you have his phone in your hands, sure enough there's five missed messages.

the first one was an hour after you dumped him.

'upon further consideration, i reject our break up. you promised me that you'd never break up with me in the heat of an argument. not after the charity auction thing.'

'therefore, we are not broken up until you come over and do it at a later time.'

'love- your boyfriend <3'

'ps. even though you blocked me, i know you don't hate me.'

'you're just mad and you're soooo gonna regret that later.'

peter's right, you do regret it. your eyes are glossy when you reread the texts over and over, even at your worst he loves you. 'so, you're still my boyfriend?'

soft pokes are placed at your sides, you squirm with his touch. 'duh. i just stayed away until you figured it out.' you pout at him, your attack deemed unjustified.

'he wasn't paying you to take me on dates. he was paying you for renovating the lab. that's why the payments stopped after we started dating.'

peter never took money from your dad and your dad never employed peter. he nods slowly. 'oh, yeah, that would make a lot of sense.' you reach forward for another hug and speak into his chest.

'i'm sorry for being mean and trying to break up with you.'

'it's okay, baby.' you melt at a kiss on your hairline. 'you didn't mean it.'

'i promise i didn't.' you feel like a dog with a tail between their legs, there's not enough ways to say how sorry you are. 'i love you, petey.'

another kiss. 'i love you, too.'

he feels so warm, he feels like home. for the first time in three days you feel comfortable, you press into your boyfriend and he doesn't budge. you love how sturdy he is, you love how you can nearly hurt him with your love.

you squeeze him hard, using all your force and almost shaking you're holding him to you so tightly. when you start limiting his breathing, peter pushes down on your elbows.

'you're about to cuteness aggression me to death.'

'i love you.' you can't say it enough.

peter laughs, 'i love you.'

'no,' you peer up at him, it's been days since you kissed him. 'i really love you.' it's whispered, peter's lips twitch at your blown pupils. you almost purr when he cups your face. 'i know you do.'

peter knows that look. he's the one that created it. 'do you want me to-'

'yes.' you waste no time, pushing up and attacking his mouth with your own. you don't know why it's so harsh, you don't know why you're desperate to swallow him and show him how much you missed him, how much you need him. you want to prove how sorry you are.

'lock your door.' peter's eyes sparkle, that means one thing. he takes off so fast his socks slip on his floor and he catches himself on the wall, his lock flicked in seconds.

peter tugs at the back of his shirt, 'naked kisses?' you bite your lip and nod, 'i could go for a bowl of cereal.' 

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

hii! it’s me yet again. just resending the link. thank you!! 😊

https://www.tumblr.com/little-miss-dilf-lover/740301214616616960/hi-how-are-you-ive-been-reading-your-fics-for-a

hii angel!! really loved writing this!! link - but will summarise to save the search. thanks for requesting, hope like it💌 not back yet, this was in my drafts

MISSED CALLS.

tangerine x fem!reader

summary. tangerine doesn’t answer your calls when he’s away on work. one night you think you hear a someone breaking in

word count. 968

warnings. angst!! little bit of hitting (reader hitting tan) hurt comfort bc it heals my heart and wound cleaning

The severity and extreme conditions of Tangerine's job often left you feeling vulnerable - alone hundreds of miles away as you wallow in worry. Castaway with no way of keeping tabs on him, no way of confirming whether he was dead or alive. 

This particular mission had you in all sorts of perpetual grief - in an everlasting spiral of dread as you await his calls. For the last week, you eagerly lingered by the phone, waiting for him to give you updates - anything to let you know he was okay. But you never once received a call - not even a quick, measly text.

It was late, the evening dark and quiet as you set up in the kitchen, wanting to distract yourself from the fear of him being gone by making a hearty dish - cooking your favourite meal to ease the ache in your heart.

Pulling out the ingredients from the fridge, you place them on the counter beside the board and knife, setting everything down on the surface. You pause, stopping still as you hear the sound of faint scuffling from behind the front door - the noise of heavy footsteps.

You grab the large knife from the chopping block, clutching it tightly in your fist as you back away from the window, shrinking in on yourself to minimise being seen. Without a second to think otherwise, you find yourself following the sound, territorial footsteps leading the way.

Standing beside the grand wood door, clasping the chef's knife with the blade pointing down - holding it in the angle Tangerine taught you. Stilling your erratic breath, you pause, hearing a familiar groan from behind the oak.

The jingling of keys confirms your theory, and you yank the door open, the immediate feeling of relief easing your shoulders when you see him on the other side.

"Oh my god," you gasp, dropping the knife to the floor - pulling him in for a hug. "Oh my god," you repeat, shock evident in your breathy tone.

Tangerine drops his duffle bag, gripping you tighter, hands clasping around your mid back - holding you like he didn't want to let go. "I'm so sorry," he mutters, his words full of sorrow. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, clutching you in a tight embrace.

"Why didn't you call? I was so worried," you whisper, squeezing him, relishing the feeling of his upper body. "You didn't even text... nothing," your tone subtly changes, the juxtaposing emotion of anger slowly creeping in. "You didn't text."

You back your head away from its spot in his neck, pulling away. "A whole week— nothing. How could you do that?" you remark, tone growing pointed.

"I know, love. I know—" he starts, his words soft and heartfelt though you were in no mood to hear it this second.

"That's so fucked up," you retort, trying to pull away from his tight hold. "So selfish," pushing and hitting at his chest, attempting to free yourself. "Let go— you're so selfish. You— how could you do—" you continue, words breaking when he doesn't release you - his hold still firm around you even with your hitting. "A whole week."

"Darlin'," he coos, pulling you back in. "I know," he adds, words faint as he mutters them into your forehead - clear regret in his voice.

He slips his hands from their hold on your back, moving to the sides of your face, cupping your cheeks as if to calm you - ground you. Making you look him in the eye, and only then do you really see his face, finally taking note of the cuts and scrapes and bruises marking his skin. 

"You're hurt," you mumble, teary eyes darting over his face.

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead. "Bit of'a bosh," he weakly smiles, trying to lighten the mood.

You give him that all-too-knowing look, a faint grin lining your lips as you slip from his hold, weaving your hand into his. Leading him into the kitchen, you guide Tangerine to the table, making him sit. 

You rummage the cupboard under the sink, collecting the medical kit and a glass of water - setting it all down on the table before washing your hands. You pull out a chair beside him, dragging it closer to take a seat.

You tear open an antiseptic wipe and carefully dap it around the gash above his eyebrow, cleaning the bloody skin. "Lucky it doesn't need stitches," you murmur, eyes focused on the wound.

Tangerine doesn't respond, not even a hum - appearing as though he was preoccupied, just intently gazing at you as you mend him. 

You part focus from his eyebrow and sift through the first-aid box. "I'm sorry for hitting you," you whisper, keeping your gaze down. "That was..." you raggedly exhale as you squeeze antibacterial cream onto your index, reaching to smear it on his skin. "That was stupid of me— shouldn't have done it," you shake your head, brushing off the thought.

His head cocks to the side in disapproval. "Don't say that," he softly scolds, his tone still warm and loving. "You don't need to be sorry... for anything."

You slump back into your seat, finally looking Tangerine in the eyes - finally meeting his gaze. "I thought you were dead," you admit, fidgeting with your fingers.

He notices your uneasy hands and places his over yours - large palms engulfing yours, the sentiment immediately comforting you. "I'm okay, darlin', I promise," he says softly, squeezing your hands. "I ain't ever gonna let that happen, okay? Ya'hear me? I will never let that happen."

"But what if when—" 

"No," he cuts you off, his single word firm and gentle. "I will never put you through that."

[cataclysmic-writer]

Speed writing isn't all it's cracked up to be

"It doesn't matter if it's messy, it matters if it's written." "You can't edit a blank page." If you're like me, these kinds of sayings are everywhere in the writing community, encouraging you to let your writing 'suck' for the sake of getting something on the page. Speed drafting and word sprints are all the rage.

I get that mentality. I do. I just came back from a multi-year hiatus, and back then, I was known on Tumblr and writing circles for speed-writing. I regularly won word wars by a huge margin. But I've recently gained a new appreciation for slow writing sessions.

The work that I drafted during those word wars? It was also riddled with typos, and errors, and it wasn't my best work. There were occasionally good lines, and it wasn't necessarily bad writing, but there was a lot to clean up after the fact. The time I saved in drafting usually came right back around in editing.

Now, I sit down after work, or on the train, and write 200 or 300 words, carefully selected over the course of ten minutes. It's slower. But it's more deliberate. I let myself edit and tweak prose, and I feel happier with the end quality of the work.

To be honest, from the novel start to the final draft, I don't think that either writing style truly saves any time. Sometimes it's okay to agonize over a sentence for a few minutes. You don't have to rush past it for the sake of getting more words down. The mentality matters more to me; if you speed draft, but can't look at how 'messy' it is without getting discouraged, then speed drafting isn't for you. And if you're getting caught up on each sentence until you feel that it's completely perfect, then yeah, maybe you need to give a speed challenge a try.

But don't feel bad for taking time to be deliberate. It pays off sometimes too.

[marsmarbles]

I hope you guys don’t mind more writing ‘cause I want to do it more often. This was meant to be a request for Gem and Skizz interacting, but I accidentally posted my work in progress instead of saving it as a draft lol. So uhhh sorry. Imma try something new and sprinkle in some art to go along with the story(since I’m assuming you guys wanna see that more than writing)

What Makes Me So Special?

Word count: 900

It was late morning when Skizz entered the detective’s base living room looking down in the dumps. Gem was sitting on the couch to Skizz’s left, which was more of a wooden bench. There wasn’t a lot of options for furniture. It was either a rock couch or a wooden couch, and Skizz knew Grian and Gem wouldn’t let a rock couch in their living room slide.

Gem was wiping down her brand new diamond sword with a white cloth(which won’t ever be white again, probably), which she had just taken for a test drive overnight. It was stained with monster guts and dark, almost brownish purple zombie blood. It was truly disgusting, but Gem seemed unbothered, letting it seep into her long, pleated skirt as she held her cyan blade on her lap.

Gem didn’t even have to look up to examine Skizz’s expression, she knew something was wrong. No way in the whole Minecraft multiverse would Skizz walk into a room without so much as a hi.

Skizz plopped down next to her on the couch with a long winded sigh and a grunt as his bottom made impact with the thick wood of the couch. He continued to sigh and readjust his sitting position like he had forgotten how to sit correctly, bobbing his eyes back in forth, trying to catch Gem’s eye. He wanted to talk about something that was bothering him, but for some reason he wanted Gem to strike up the conversation. Then, he began whistling, which could be seen as a death sentence. As skilled as a fighter Gem was, she’s wasn’t afraid to give her friends a good whack if they annoyed her.

Instead, Gem compacted herself like a shrimp to put her face closer to her sword, pointlessly scrubbing more violently in one spot, which was very much clean by now. Her eye twitched in annoyance to the sound of Skizz’s airy, ear piercing whistle. Don’t get her wrong, she loved Skizz, but she had just pulled an all nighter fighting monsters and really didn’t have the energy to deal with anyone right now. She had the eye bags and unkept hair to show for it.

After tolerating Skizz for a good long while(and being on the verge of stabbing him), Gem finally gave in. “What’s wrong, Skizz?” Gem groaned.

“GEMSTONE!!” Skizz shouted a little too loud. He had been holding in his words for what felt like forever. He most definitely looked constipated. “Y’know how I really like Impulse??”

“Yeah…?” Gem replied, raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘and?’. What was new? She’s heard this story a bagillion times. Skizz really likes Impulse. Skizz pretty much told her every second of every day. Or at least he’s brought it up enough for Gem to give up on counting.

“Well….” Skizz hesitated. He actually seemed serious for once. Or was it sad? Maybe it was the tone in his voice. “I guess I feel kinda lame ‘round him, y’know. He’s just so smart and cool and I genuinely love to be around the guy. He’s special y’know….Special to me…..I just don’t feel special….I can’t build a house without it looking ugly. I can’t make a red stone thingy-ma-jig and have it work. And I can’t even fight good. I can’t even muster up the courage to tell him how I feel about him…” Skizz took a shaky breath. He sniffled, tilted his head up, and blinked a lot, trying to suck back the tears attempting to escape his eyes.

He continued. “How can I possibly believe that he loves me too…..what makes me so special?…..I guess….I’m just scared he’s faking cuz he pities me.” He huffed and gripped his pant legs, trying to fight back the tears. It would usually kill a ‘real’ man to be this open.

“Skizz….” Gem’s expression shifted to concern. Now she felt horrible for trying to ignore him. No wonder Skizz was so abnormally hesitant to speak with her, he was trying to talk about feelings of inadequacy. She stared at the floor in contemplation, then drew a long breath, readying her advice. “Well, if I know Impulse(which I do) he loves you just as much.” Gem gave Skizz a small but comforting smile. “And if I know Impulse(which, again, I do) he thinks you’re special….very special.” Gem gave Skizz a nudge in the shoulder.

“But how do you know-“ Skizz attempted to retort.

“Impulse is smart, right?” Gem finished.

Skizz felt his face heat up. His halo, which floated just above his head, began to rotate slowly. He broke eye contact with Gem out of embarrassment, who continued to smile at him.

Gem shoved Skizz off the wooden couch bench, trying to break the awkward silence. “NOW GO GET THAT MAN! He’s waiting for you, Skizz! I assure you !” She projected reassuringly. Skizz was just able to catch himself. “Uhhh- YEAH!!” Skizz shuffled out of his awkward landing position and struck a triumphant pose. He turned back to Gem. “Thanks, Gemstone!! This little chat really helped me out! And it was kinda neat to let my feelings out. Imma go find Impulse!!! Seeya!!” Skizz ran off and out the door with his confidence restored. Gem let herself fall back into her seat on the couch, smiling proudly to herself for a job well done. She shed a tear of joy at the thought:

I’m going to have two dads!

[scivors]

HIII i was going thru ur blog and holy shit the anon who requested u in ur other post wasnt wrong that you're a really good writer LIKE DAMNNNN???

THE WAY YOU WRITE SIMON'S PERSONALITY IS SO GOOD AND REALISTIC, LIKE STRAIGHT UP. ur writing is honestly such a breath of fresh air, because some of the fanfics ive read abt simon are pretty ooc unfortunately. THE WAY YOU WRITE IS SO PEAKKKK/pos

If its okay with you, can you do like where the reader who also suffers from "self-inflicted ouchies"(sh) and they just find simon just doing "self-inflicted ouchies" in his room or just any location(you pick), and like after that the reader helps him with harm-reduction by teaching him how to clean his wounds?? basically teaching him sh aftercare, because in the game its pretty apparent simon legit just pulls his sleeves down and calls it a day.

and honestly as someone who suffers from self-mutilation irl, watching simon just doing fruit ninja on the sidewalk in the cry of fear:memories dlc while doing NOTHING, to clean his wounds made me cringe so bad. like bro,, YOU WILL GET AN INFECTION. STOP.

also its okay if you dont wanna accept this request, since this topic is rlly sensitive so its fine! either way thank you sm for writing simon so well :3

Y'all can skip this long ass intro if y'all don't feel like reading it.

((My page is for people to feel seen and heard through the characters I write about. People who self harm aren't to be silenced, they aren't meant to be put aside because the topic is "sensitive"

Self harm is a coping mechanism.. It can help you express feelings that are way too difficult to express or it becomes an addiction cause you like the feeling that you can at least feel something in the moment.. However, it can also be dangerous because of the medical health benefits.

I hope you're well and okay.

- Mika, Mikayla Winters))

Reader x Simon - both of them use self harm.

"You make me feel like I am clean again.."

Vulnerable Simon? 😞

[introduction]

However cutting himself doesn't seem like the only issue here, he has other forms of self harm in the game..

You didn't catch him..

Naturally Simon doesn't necessarily care about his scars, he doesn't care how infected his scars look and how deep they are as long as they're doing their job..

Bottling up your emotions is another form of self harm..

Also abusing substances like drugs in the game to make him "heal faster".

[how you two met]

Let's talk about how you two met.

You and Simon go to the same college, you two met each other in one of your classes together..

He was trying to focus as much as he could on the lecture that was right in front of him, but in complete circumstances, his attention span slipped and his mind wandered elsewhere. Missing half the lecture.

Outside of college Simon decided to have a little smoke to help him make it through the day at least. His body was running on energy drinks, cigarettes and 3 hours of sleep.

You find this very noticeable but without alarming anyone or trying to scare him away, instead, you slowly make your way towards him. Simon was skeptical by your sudden approach, he knows you. You two go to the same class.. However Simon doesn't know you enough to even know your name. But do you know him??? Do you even remember his name?

He avoided eye contact with you, assuming you're just there to ask if he can give you his cigarettes.. By the time you two started talking, you pulled out your own cigarettes..Simon was hit with relief.(if you don't smoke you can skip this shit) and that's where the conversation kinda happened.

- My name's ______ ,

- I'm from there and there

Basically how every normal conversation happens..

.

.

.

[how you two found out..]

I remember way back that I have a headcanon saved in my drafts about Simon Henriksson who forgets he has scars underneath his hoodie whenever he is around you.

You just so happened to visit his house for game night and Simon was comfortable enough to not wear his hoodie at the time. All infected and not even properly cleaned at all.

- you allow time to pass by. But the more Simon exchanged glances with you, he fully understands what you're hinting at until you finally address the elephant in the room..

"....Hey." you rolled up your sleeve to expose what you've been hiding from everyone else..

- It's not Simon's first time seeing scars. He's completely numb to the feeling of seeing scars in front of him. This doesn't make him a monster, but rather this makes him less judgemental to your suffering since he understands your pain.

"I'm..sorry. Did you do this to yourself? Why?"

He would COMPLETELY understand if you don't want to mention it. But still, he is a bit noisy in that subject of the matter..

"It's..something irrelevant that I'm not quite comfortable sharing at the moment."

Rightfully so, he guessed it. He didn't push the questions any further. Then there's a long pause between you two before you decide to speak again.

"But...like...yours look infected. Like..REALLY infected..Do you want me to show you how to clean them?" You sound concerned rather than trying to criticise him which is something new.

Simon took a moment to gain back his critical thinking after analysing his own arm.

"...they're not all that bad.."

You doubted him on that part. However if there's one thing that Simon likes about you it's gotta be the fact how you're not fake. Almost straight to the point and bold, even your face says it all..it matches perfectly with what you're exactly thinking

"well, let me at least show you what product I use.."

"Oh..kay-.." he looked down nervously as you took the lead..

Oh my god, Simon started suddenly overthinking everything that just happened..

He didn't care before, why is it now that he's feeling this regret and fear that you'll potentially tell everyone about his scars..

It's like his whole perspective of you changed like a flick of a light switch..

"you're not gonna tell anyone about this, right? Please don't tell anyone.."

While in the middle of cleaning his arm, the reader took a moment to look away from his arm and derange eye contact with him before gently with a soft touch on his shoulder, your tone reassured him gently.

" Simon, I should be the last person to judge someone by their scars. I mean, look at the scars on my arm.. We're no different from one another.."

After what you said there's another long pause between the both of you. The room went quiet and so did his thoughts.

"But why do you trust me with your scars?"

"I didn't at first. but I guess you made it non-verbally clear that you're the nonjudgmental type.." you gave him a genuine smile

He admired your intense observation and how you noticed every detail about him. I mean, that's who you are basically. Someone who notices things and feels things deeply..

"Ah...well. I guess I can be sometimes judgemental, but not with stuff like this.."

- What if I tell you that Simon wasn't sober at this moment. When he's on drugs he's completely relaxed and vulnerable almost like he's expressing that side of him that doesn't fully exist yet and only comes out when he's stoned.

- He did them before you came into his house. He wanted to make a good impression in front of you and make it seem like he's got everything under control when in actual reality, he feels so much more sensible and gentle..

[corazondebeskar-reads]

save your tears

Joel Miller x f!reader

originally for Febuwhump 2024 Day 18 - too weak to move | Febuwhump masterlist

words: 1.1k

summary: What would have happened if you went with Joel and Ellie instead of staying in Jackson?

-- I cheated a little for this one but this is an alternate universe scene from "you know you never stood a chance" (spoiler warning). BUT this can be read as a standalone.

warnings: established situationship, canon-compliant-ish, canon-typical violence, description of wound, description of bodily fluids related to a wound, realistic thoughts about a survival situation, hunting and eating of animals

dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/N: this is what I call the silver lake alternate version. in my very early draft of the story, you did not stay in jackson. you got mad at Joel for abandoning Ellie and went to the stables in the morning, planning to go with Ellie and Tommy. The rest of the events happened as per canon. However, as I was writing this scene, it became quickly apparent that it was the wrong narrative choice. but just for fun, here's a snippet after Joel is wounded. (stay tuned in the end notes for the one single David line I wrote).

“You can’t shoot,” Ellie says. She won’t look at you. It’s not mean; it’s just another way you’re failing them. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be back,” she promises. 

You hate this. But there’s no time for self-loathing. What you can do instead is boil snow. 

You creep up to the main level of the house. When you’re sure it’s clear, you crawl through, trying to stay out of sight through any windows. You’re able to scrounge up a few containers of dubious origin and cleanliness but better than your two canteens. 

You light a fire in an old ration tin and prop a steel mixing bowl (the best find of the lot) on top. The first round of snow goes to scrubbing out the containers with an unfortunately large sliver from your bar of soap. 

It’s a loss, but you can’t risk putting dirty water on Joel’s wound. 

Once you have one clean bowl of water, you set another to boil and pull back his shirt and bandages. 

It’s bad. You know it, Ellie knows it, Joel knows it. But you have to try. You have to, or all three of you are dead. 

Well. Maybe not Ellie. She’s tough and capable. Maybe she could make it back to Tommy without you slowing her down. 

You have nothing remotely sterile, so you mentally set aside the next bowl of water for cleaning a scrap of fabric. For now, you try to flush the wound with a slow stream of warm water. 

You’ve been talking to him quietly, explaining to him what you were doing, though his consciousness is dubious at best today. But when you start to pour, his eyes snap open, and his hand flashes out to squeeze at the bones of your wrist. 

“Joel, it’s me, it’s just me,” you say quickly. His grip is grinding, and things are not going to be helped by a broken wrist. And you know it never really healed right, that breaking it a second time would mean it possibly never working the same again. You try not to panic. 

“Joel, please,” you whimper, and he seems to finally recognize you. His fingers loosen, but don’t let go. 

“I’m just trying to help,” you say. You feel like the basement is getting smaller, darker, like it might swallow you up. Someone is breathing shakily, and you’re humiliated to find out it’s you. 

His thumb rubs against your pulse for a moment. “Take Ellie and go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and cracking. 

Instead of responding, you bring the canteen up to his mouth and let a little water drip into his mouth. His eyes close for a moment. 

He purses his lips too soon, a tiny shake to his head. 

“It’s okay, I’m boiling more, please drink.”

But he’s already passing back out. You reach up and stroke your fingers through his hair. It’s damp with sweat despite the crystalline spread of ice inside the windowpanes. 

Sweat is good, right? It means his body is burning the infection. At least, you think so. 

You pause to switch the water so you can get a clean rag. Maybe when Ellie gets back, you can try to ransack the other houses for anything of use. 

You wait until you have a full slate of clean water before you drink any. When it hits your tongue, you think you might cry. Pacing yourself is so hard. 

He wakes up again when you try to clean the wound with the fabric you’d torn from your ragged t-shirt. Every breath draws bile you have to swallow again and again, a fruitless endeavor that ends with you scrambling to throw up outside, terrified of introducing any other contaminants to his environment. 

When you scrub at the wound, he’s awake enough to struggle with the pain but not awake enough to be aware of what’s happening. So he tries to move away, to fight you off. 

It’s worth it, you tell yourself over and over. You’re able to get some of the dirt away with some soap, and some of the pus flows, but not enough. You don’t put pressure on it, afraid to push the infection deeper. 

The skin around his stitches is puffy, red, and oozing. Dread settles deep. You’re probably going to need to cut them and clean the wound. But not now; you can’t force yourself to at this moment. Plus, you might need Ellie to help in case he tries to fight it. 

Instead, you use a clean corner of the rag to wipe dirt from his face and another to try and drip a little more water into his mouth. Suppressing a sob, you press your lips to the burning skin of his forehead. 

Ellie comes back a few hours later and a few rabbits richer. She’s skinned and prepped them when she comes inside, and you set to boiling the meat and bones. 

The two of you eat the meat, and you spend the rest of the evening trying to drip broth into Joel’s mouth. 

It turns into a rhythm. Joel doesn’t get worse, but he doesn’t get better. Sometimes, he wakes and tries to convince you to leave again, to take Ellie and abandon him. Neither of you are very tolerant of his arguments. 

Once, when you’re alone, he seems a little lucid. Ellie is out checking traps, and you’re sitting helplessly next to Joel, sniffling. You’ve got squirrel boiling in the little can fire, but it takes a long time, leaving you with little to do but wait. 

“Why’re ya cryin’, sweetheart?” His voice cracks from disuse, and he tries to clear his throat. 

You’re up on your knees with the canteen to his lips in an instant. He drinks a little and swats it away, reaching a shaky hand to cup your cheek and brush away a tear with his thumb. 

“I know y’ain’t cryin’ over me,” he scolds. 

It only makes you cry harder, though you scramble to choke it back. You peel his hand from you, holding it for a moment in both of yours before giving it a gentle squeeze and placing it back on the mattress. 

“Let me get you some broth,” you mumble, wiping your eyes on your dusty sleeves. 

He lets you feed him a little. 

“C’mere,” he says when you’ve reluctantly stowed the broth. He tugs you to his uninjured side, and you have to squeeze your eyes tight as you gently curl to him. “Remember when you used to be a good girl and do whatever I’d tell ya?”

“We’re not leaving you, Joel.” You’re so tired of this conversation. Actually, you realize as his heat seeps through your clothes, you’re just so tired. 

“Even though I was gonna leave you?”

“Shit, you’re right,” you say and watch exasperatedly as he has the nerve to look a little hopeful. “You nearly leavin’ me behind in the safest place you know is the same thing as leavin’ you to rot in a random filthy basement.”

“Stubborn brat,” he grumbles before he falls back into a fitful sleep.

BONUS — The one line I wrote for a scene with David:

“something rude,” says David.

*title from "Save Your Tears" by The Weeknd

[coolingrosa]

Could u tell me whats ur writing process? Like how many drafts, how many words u write each day, how u storyboard, how u get inspiration etc. I wanna know so i can take some inspiration. Thanks in advance!

Hi! I’ll be glad to answers this, as I’m in my creative writing class rn doing nothing lol!

I have about three drafts for each chapter. The first is the rough draft. The next is the adjusted draft where I clean it up and fix up some major grammar mistakes or problems. The last one if the final clean up where I have Barnacle look over it and suggest things to change. Once I’m done cleaning it up, it’s off to AO3!

I strive for about 1k words a day, but it’s different for everyone. A lot of my writer friends see that as too many, while others see it as too little . Work at your own pace and set your own goals. I do that much because I like writing in long stretches with a lot of fluff between dialogue. Others write differently! Don’t feel bad if ur goal is larger or smaller.

On bigger projects, like the animatic I’m working on right now, I make a storyboard page in clip studio and block out each frame. I save the frames to my ipad, then, I move it to the animation studio feature and follow the blocking to make a sketchy animatic. Finally, I go in and clean it up and then upload! I’m not the best person to ask for storyboarding advice since I’m still trying to improve on that, but I highly suggest doing so vanishing point studies and work on your perspective for a better experience while watching. You want each frame to be a little different than the first, especially in animatics.

I get inspiration from everywhere! For the Forgotten ones was my main one for writing, but art wise? There’s too many to count! All my mutuals and friends inspire me, but music does as well. Listening to a song can make the lines flow better for me. I suggest making a pintrest board of art you LOVE and have it up while drawing. It helps so much.

[belovedblossoms]

Sooo...about the abrupt hiatus? (aka I'm kinda sorta back)

Yikes. So uh...hey guys? It's been a while, I know, been gone for months. I've been fine but just had a lot on my plate between family, planned events and other things that I was losing motivation to do some more writing (and losing attention span too). So I can't say I was really in the right mindset to hop on my laptop. I was also trying to read more and that kind of helped me push to come back and see my hand at writing again. I really was debating on just moving to a new blog but I can't find the energy for that right now to even bother. So potentially I can just really try to start anew and perhaps drop two or three characters here that weren't as active or vibing with altogether.

For those who have unfollowed me, I understand and no worries at all if you do decide to follow back or not, thank you for your time. <3 For those who still with me, thanks so much for sticking by as well! And if you'd like to continue the threads that we have or just drop them, please do let me know too. I know I still have like a lot saved in drafts but I don't want to continue if we lost the plot or anything especially if we've moved on ^^; Please note that my activity may still be spotty here when it comes to roleplaying but I do peek in now and then of what's happening through my phone app so I'm still available to reach out on the IM here. I am gonna do a bit of clean up here as much as I could figure out to do and remember what's been going on so I might be lacking or slow a little bit to get together.